


A Thousand Miles Wearing Thror's Gold Crown

by HallsofStone2941



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, BAMF!Frerin, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Dragon can't tell him what to do and where to go, Eventual Happy Ending, Family Feels, Family Reunion, Frerin is sort of King Under the Mountain, Frerin's not dead, Gold Sickness, Graphic Description of Corpses, Mix of book and movie canon, Multi, Occasional swearing, Politics, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:31:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2039115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallsofStone2941/pseuds/HallsofStone2941
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the third-in-line to the throne, Frerin never has a great deal of responsibility. It seems that any sort of ruling he might have to do is decades away. But when Smaug attacks Erebor, Frerin finds himself deep within the mountain with no way of escape. Accompanied by a few lucky survivors, he must take up the role of leadership and learn how to keep his people alive in the bowels of the Lonely Mountain - and hopefully, find a way to escape. Trouble, however, comes not just from their reptilian neighbor and the dangers of uncharted caverns, but from within the group itself, as concerns arise questioning a fifteen-year-old prince's ability to lead the last of the Dwarves of Erebor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Miles Wearing Thror's Gold Crown

**Author's Note:**

> Oh...my...God...I've never felt as exhausted by writing a fic as I have this one. I had hoped that I could reach 17,000 words, and I've almost doubled it, for Mahal's sake!
> 
> I just...I think I'll go lie down for a bit.
> 
> *hands to you* cookies if you get to the end. All mistakes are mine, and quite honestly, I'm a bit too tired to go through it thoroughly for errors. *snores*

"DRAGON!"

Frerin hears his brother's voice over the bustle of the Craftsman's Hall, where his tutor, Hori, halts in his explanation of jewelry-making. Frerin had just been wishing for a distraction - something to free him from the tedium of learning a craft (as per his father's instructions) - but _this_ is not what he had in mind.

The various Dwarves and Dwarrowdams in the Hall freeze for one long second, the ringing of hammers and plinking of refining tools turning into complete, unnatural silence. From the Gates of Erebor, a cacophony of noises can be heard: Dwarves shouting, wind howling, weapons clanging, and, most notably, the unfamiliar roar of some _huge_ creature announcing its agenda with Erebor's inhabitants. The noise easily reaches Frerin's ears, a remarkable feat, he thinks, when one considers that the Craftsman's Hall is two levels below the entrance to Erebor. The sounds from the ground level fade into the background as the Hall erupts into a burst of activity, but never disappear.

His grandfather's subjects move around him in blurs, the colors of their robes, which signify their trade, combining with the glint of iron, steel, silver, gold, and other metals, as well as leathers from the tanners and bolts of fabric from the tailors and seamstresses. From his elevated view at the single-person Royal Forge, he can see more than a hundred Dwarves of all vocations rushing about and shouting at each other. Many reach for weapons (most made only minutes ago), while others attempt to gather their crafting tools and materials (some races may find it strange that a Dwarf would try to save his embroidery or leatherwork in the event of an attack, but the phrase "married to one's craft" is no exaggeration among Mahal's children).

Despite the impending threat and chaos in the Mountain, Frerin is calm. _It's alright,_ he thinks. _The doors are strong, and our warriors many._ The panic in the Hall seems unnecessary to him; it is unlikely that the dragon will make it past the Gates before either giving up or being shot down.

Hori, apparently, does not share Frerin's surety. "We must get you to safety, young Prince," he urges, his insistent, forge-strengthened hand pulling Frerin down the steps and towards the massive staircase that allows passage between all seven levels of Erebor. Frerin stumbles along behind him, the bruising grip on his elbow and the confusion of colors and sound distracting him while Hori's single-minded focus drags him faster.

Hori leads him up the stairs, taking them two at a time and forcing Frerin to do the same. Neither Dwarf is accustomed to running up the gargantuan staircase, but while Hori likely attends the required training sessions, Frerin spends his youthful energy avoiding Fundin and running _down_ stairs. He has plenty of upper body strength from climbing up every available surface, but dislikes using his legs any more than necessary. It would be easier and less painful to breathe, he thinks now, if he did not skip out on his lessons.

By the time they reach the floor below ground level (often called Sub-Floor One), Frerin can hardly stand. He leans against the wall and bends forward, spots dancing across the gold-streaked green floor as he tries to catch his breath. Hori urges him again, trying to get the third-in-line for the throne to keep moving, but Frerin ignores him in favor of taking painful, heaving gasps.

"How...is going... _up_...safe?" he wheezes, wondering if he can persuade his tutor to go to the lower levels for protection.

"If you do not get out of the mountain, you will be trapped here," Hori says darkly, reaching again for his pupil. "Come, we have lingered long enough."

Frerin releases one last gust of air before standing up and following Hori. By now, the staircase is swarming with Dwarves going up, the trample of boots on stone mingling with the increasing noise of a rampaging dragon. Frerin focuses on breathing, making sure he inhales deeply before exhaling, as Fundin once instructed him to do. It turns his attention away from the burn in his legs, and the impossible distance to the top of the stairs.

They just reach the final steps on the ground level when a terrific rumble shudders through the Mountain. Frerin looks up as dust and tiny rocks shake free from the ceiling high above. "Come ON, Prince Frerin," Hori shouts, tugging at his sleeves with panicked exasperation. Frerin just starts to run again when an even bigger shudder shakes the ground beneath his feet. Frerin sways, trying to regain his balance on the suddenly rocking ground. From above, a loud _crack_ is audible, an Frerin looks up in time to see a chunk of rock the size of a balrog hurtling towards him. He stumbles backward, nearly tripping over the uneven breaks in the floor that have appeared beneath his feet. Somehow, he manages to escape the shadow of the mass coming toward him, and he shouts a warning to the other Dwarrows. Some get out of the way in time, but several are crushed beneath the stone, the crunch of bones inaudible above the shrieks and din of the aftershocks.

The hall he stands in has several similar chunks of rock resting in the floor, leaving craters and spider web cracks radiating from the point of impact. More boulders fall from the ceiling, with Dwarves looking like tiny ants as they try to dodge the falling debris. The scene looks more like the effects of an earthquake than the coming of a dragon.

His attention falls of Hori, who beckons him from a raised piece of the floor. Frerin carefully makes his way across the ground, trying to keep one eye on the falling ceiling and the other eye on the widening cracks in the floor. Just as he reaches for Hori's hand to climb up on the broken chunk his instructor stands on, a large boulder falls directly behind the tutor. The piece of floor tilts, and Hori's arms flail as he tried to maintain his balance. Another loud crack turns Frerin's attention upward, where he sees several more boulders break off.

He is pushed backward as Hori attempts to keep the prince away from the deadly missiles. As Frerin regains his balance, he watches in horror as a Man-sized boulder lands directly on his tutor. Frerin does not see the form crumble beneath the weight of the stone - instead, it is as if Hori stands there with a rock poised above his head in one second; in the next, the rock lies on the ground, and only a boot and a soot-covered hand are visible beneath it.

Frerin feels bile rise in his throat as he stares, dumbstruck, at the sight. Instead of throwing up, though, the breath is knocked out of him as an arm wraps tight around his ribcage and drags him backward, causing him to fall into the Dwarf that grabbed him. Another piece of ceiling, only slightly smaller than the one that had...hit...Hori ( _not dead, can't be dead, not possible he was trying to save me_ ), lands where Frerin had stood only a moment before. The near-death experience snaps him out of his daze, and he scrambles to stand upright.

His savior is a chestnut-haired Dwarrowdam with a neatly braided beard outlining her jawbone. "Beggin' yer pardon, Yer 'ighness, but back is safer'n forward, a' this poin'." She steps to the side, indicating the staircase he had crawled up only minutes ago. He looks at her, assessing her calm demeanor, and nods. They run down the staircase, hoping only to get away from the deadly, rocky rain.

They pass the first sub-floor and are halfway down to the second when the biggest rumble yet quakes the mountain. Frerin and the Dwarrowdam grasp the handrails in an attempt to keep themselves upright while the floor shakes and sways beneath their feet. A crackling sound turns both their heads up, and they see underside of the ground floor giving way to the broken ceiling pieces. Another rumble, and the first boulder that fell crashes through the floor to land on the level above them.

"Yer 'ighness, look!" The Dwarrowdam points to the staircase above them, which has a large crack at the top.

"RUN!" Frerin shouts, grabbing her wrist and yanking her down. She stumbles behind him, but he does not halt for fear of the stairs bearing down on both their heads. He flies by the second sub-level, releasing the Dwarrowdam's hand as she regains her footing, and keeps going, focusing on keeping his feet from slipping. They do just that as an ominous _crack_ sounds above them, and he rolls painfully down several steps. He manages to catch his foot on a rail post, causing the joint to yank him to a painful stop. He shouts as his ankle burns in protest, but he forces himself to stand up. His eyes catch on the staircase as it gives way, and he hurtles himself down the stairs, catching the Dwarrowdam by her outer robes from where she had rolled to a stop and hauling her back on her feet.

The floor shakes and shifts beneath them as the staircase rains stone from above. His companion goes down as a shield-sized rock catches her on the head, and the weight of her momentum takes him down as well. They roll and roll and roll, Frerin losing his grip on the unconscious Dwarrowdam, and the shaking and crumbling of the mountain aiding in their descent. He finally rolls to a halt as he reaches the third sub-level - only one above the lowest level before the mines. Moving causes him to feel every freshly-acquired bruise, but he grits his teeth and forces himself up, staggering and groaning like a two-hundred-and-something grandpa. Fear and worry urge him faster while his injuries slow him down, causing him to move jerkily across the somewhat more stable floor while rocks continue to tumble down from above.

He finds the Dwarrowdam and drags her away from the stairs by the armpits, his back and legs screaming in protest at hauling someone while injured. As soon as they are away from the stairs, a crashing sound accompanies the sight of hundreds of tons of stone crumbling down as the staircase finally gives way. Forcing his sweaty and dirty blond hair away from his face, he wedges his hands beneath the Dwarrowdam and lifts her, grunting and straining and cursing himself for avoiding training practice - perhaps Father and Thorin had had a point when they said he would never know when he might need to be strong.

After a lot of shifting and swearing, he manages to balance the woman over his right shoulder. His first step has him staggering to the right, and his feet almost trip him as he tries to readjust. Planting his feet widely apart, he focuses his attention on the feel of the Dwarrowdam's weight, and carefully takes a step forward and to the right, maintaining a firm grip on his cargo. When his knees do not immediately buckle, he takes another step, then another, all attention on calculating each step. His eyes are on the ground, looking for anything he may trip over, and the sound of the slow, staggering shuffle of his feet on the stone fills the dark, silent, empty floor. The rumbles of stone and shouts of his people are far above him, the battle seemingly coming to a close as the mountain slowly settles. His breathing is loud in his ear, and his muscles feel as if they will collapse at any moment, but he walks with determined steps until he finds a rocky overhang. The idea of sheltering beneath more stone unnerves him, but this wall climbs high up into the mountain, giving it much more support than the staircases or ceiling.

He lowers himself carefully, unable to keep from dropping the last few inches. He moves the Dwarrowdam to lean against the wall, her head lolling to one side. She is covered in stony dust, and blood dries from several tiny cuts on her face, a large gash on her forehead, and the bump he finds after carefully searching through her hair (while praying to Mahal that she does not wake up while he does so). Her skin is pale in the odd light that comes from Aule-knows-where, but he feels warm breath against his hand when he holds it under her nose, and her pulse is strong beneath his fingertips.

He leans back, exhausted, against the stone. A bone-deep weariness comes over him, as if he had been training with Fundin all day. Whatever had kept him running seems to drain out of his body, leaving his nerves frayed and allowing questions to begin creeping into his mind - questions, and doubts. As the rumbles above fade more and more into silence, a thousand concerns voice themselves in his head. What happened? Was the dragon defeated? It seems impossible to him, that after so much damage was wrought, the Dwarves of Erebor had come out victorious. Yet even more impossible is the idea that they were defeated - that even now, the survivors of their kingdom, if any, are shuffling and stumbling out of the mountain, bruised, bloodied and burned. Had anyone survived? Or is it that Frerin and his injured savior are the only ones left alive? If this is so, how long before they, too, perish? Or perhaps the dragon had been defeated - would anyone come looking for them? Could anyone even reach them in time?

The events of the past - hour? Had it only been an hour? It MUST have been longer - run through his head. Two Dwarrows had endangered themselves to see him safe; one had paid for it with his life. _"Your Highness"?_ He thinks bitterly. He is no prince. He is the brother of the son of the son of the King, the third-in-line, even worse than the "spare heir". While his father and brother attend meetings and hold their roles with the grace and majesty befitting the line of Durin, he runs around like a wild boar, preferring to hide from tutors and play with other children than learn how to be a prince. Even his little sister is more suited to her role as royalty than he. That Hori had given his life to save him - Frerin's fists clench, bitten nails digging into his palm. His eyes screw tight - he does not deserve to cry. He does not even deserve to breathe.

He turns his head to look at the Dwarrowdam. Her clothes mark her as a wireworker, a craft that requires steady, nimble fingers to twist beautiful metals and thread gems into glorious decorative shapes. Frerin would place her age around a hundred and ten, maybe fifteen. Her even breathing soothes him slightly, and he realizes that he did rescue one person. He cannot lead to save his life, and he knows nothing of healing, but maybe, when she wakes - if she wakes - they can find a way out together.

The thought is not half as comforting as he had hoped it would be, but he forces himself to ignore the churning doubts in his brain. He settles back against the stone, trying to find a comfortable position, and concentrates on the gentle inhale and exhale (and the tiny accompanying snore) of his companion. Though he intends to stay awake, the physical and emotional toll of the day catches him unawares, and he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

 Frerin jerks awake, the feeling of _wrongness_ that had invaded his sleep forcing him into alertness as he processes the unfamiliar surroundings. The events of the previous day rush into his head, and he runs through them, trying to discern if everything he remembers had actually happened. But the hard stone beneath him and the dark, cold space he is in convinces him that his memories are not the result of a bad dream.

His chest aches and his throat tightens; Frerin grinds his teeth together in an attempt to keep from crying. Mother, Father, Grandpa, Thorin, Dis - would he ever see any of them again? A harsh, choked sob breaks past his sealed lips, ending the utter silence in which he had awoken.

A gentle shifting and slight pressure against his left side draws his attention to the Dwarrowdam beside him. Her eyebrows press together as she wakes up, and he knows she is fully conscious when a long, pain-filled groan sounds from her closed mouth.

Frerin wholeheartedly agrees. Everywhere on his body aches, even places he did not know _could_ hurt. Each tiny movement makes his stiff and sore muscles protest, and the dull ache of bruises and annoying pinpricks of cuts and scrapes make themselves known every time they brush against something. During a cursory examination of his body the night before, Frerin had found no major injuries, but the minor ones are more than making up for it.

A sharp hiss escapes his companion's lips as she leans forward. Her eyes are screwed up tight and her hand is on her forehead; she is likely fighting nausea. Frerin knows from personal experience that head injuries can make one queasy.

"Easy," he says, hands hovering to support her if necessary. "You got hit pretty hard, and there's nowhere you need to be right now."

The Dwarrowdam moves slowly, carefully putting her feet in the proper places and rising one unsteady inch at a time. She sways slightly before standing straight. Frerin supports her with one hand on her back and the other under her elbow.

"Where are we?" She asks in a scratchy voice, looking around.

"The third sub-floor," he replies, gaze piercing the darkness as he gains his bearings. The crumbled remains of the wide staircase rest in a hazardous pile a hundred feet to their left, while the rest of the staircase sits unsteadily on the remaining supports, completely unaccessible at five hundred feet above their heads. The level below them is used to count, examine, and sort the multitude of precious stones and metals that come from the mines below before being sent to the Craftsman's Level. The floor they are on holds the dungeons, though from what Frerin remembers, there had been no prisoners before the dragon came. Now the only ones trapped on this floor are Frerin and the Dwarrowdam.

"What is your name?" he murmurs, mind still running through the possible exits they might find.

"Lira, a' yer service, Yer 'ighness," she says, attempting to bow but almost falling flat on her face. Frerin fights to keep her upright, tired muscles protesting against her stoutness. With his help, Lira regains her balance, looking irritated and embarrassed. "Sorry, M—" he cuts her off.

"Don't worry about it - just Frerin, please," he half begs her, revolting at the undeserving title. "You saved my life; it's the least I can do, Lady Lira."

"'m no Lady," she mumbles. "'f it's just Frerin fer you, 'ighness, it's just Lira fer me."

"Lira, then," he says, ignoring the title. "Do you think you can walk?"

She takes a few tentative steps forward, wobbling even as he aids her. After a dozen paces, though, her walking becomes steadier. He can see that her tired muscles drag her feet along the floor, but she is not swaying or staggering, which he counts as a good sign. When she comes back to where he stands, she looks at the rubble pile that used to be the Eastern Staircase.

"So," she says, obviously trying for casual, though there is a ghost of a quaver in her voice, "how d' we get ou'?" She meets his gaze, brown eyes reflecting the dim light that surrounds them.

Frerin's throat tightens. Here is a woman almost eight times his age looking to _him_ for guidance, as if he knows everything because he is a prince. He wants to tell her he does not know, that he _cannot_ know, because he is a prince by blood only. He has not earned his title.

But she saved his life, and she is depending on him - a young princeling - to demonstrate the leadership if his lineage. Oh, if only Thorin were here! He would know what to do; more so, he would deserve the trust that Lira places in him. But Thorin is not here - may never be "here" again - and some intrinsic part of Frerin refuses to let himself give up.

He looks around. His first instinct is to find the source of the light; whether it comes from mirrors or torches, there will likely be a path next to it. But there are no obvious stairs - no easy ways for prisoners to escape from this level - and climbing is out of the question; Lira's head injury would make her unbalanced, and there is no telling how deep the damage that the dragon wrought is. For all Frerin knows of stonework, the walls could come crashing down around them at the slightest touch. Climbing is out of the question.

But.

There is another set of stairs on the west side of the mountain, which under normal circumstances would be half a day's journey at this depth. Depending on the extent of the damage this deep in the ground, and the stability in the western half of the mountain, the journey could possibly be made.

"We could make for the Western Staircase. If the passage isn't completely blocked, and the stairs are still intact, we can get up that way." Lira looks skeptical, with good reason; there are several very real possibilities that could prevent them from reaching their goal.

"Then what?" she asks, and Frerin cannot tell if she is testing him or merely looking for a plan.

"Then we'll see," he answers bluntly. There are a hundred and one scenarios, all divided into two categories: one, the dragon had been defeated, and two, the dragon is alive and currently sitting on Erebor's gold. Personally, Frerin thinks the latter is more likely, though he does not say this - no need in frightening his companion. "First we need to get up there, and that'll take time enough."

Lira nods in acceptance and does not question him again. After several seconds of standing there awkwardly, Frerin realizes that she is waiting for him to lead the way. He takes a deep breath, hoping that, with the intention of preventing escapes, the planners of this level made traversing it fairly simple. Knowing the way most guards think, he assumes this is the case; let the lawbreakers escape from their cages, but leave the only two exits - the Eastern and Western Staircases - heavily guarded.

"Come on," he says, walking away from the Eastern Staircase and listening for the sound of feet following him. He sets an easy pace, mindful of the injuries they both sustained and wary of the objects hiding in the shadows, waiting to trip up unsuspecting Dwarves.

They walk in silence for an immeasurable amount of time, and Frerin wonders if only he feels the awkward tension in the air; the only comfort he has is the steady footfall behind him that assures him Lira is still there. He supposes he should say something, but while he can spit rapid-fire words at his friends, speaking to an adult is far more out of his area of expertise than is expected from a Prince of Durin.

"Thank you for saving me," he blurts out when the silence threatens to drown him.

"Likewise," Lira says, her voice smoother than when she woke, but still somewhat rough. Likely from thirst, Frerin realizes, noticing that his own throat is dry. Dwarves can, if necessary, go several days without water, but he would rather not get to that point.

"Keep an ear open for any running water," he instructs, straining his own ears to see if he can hear anything, and catches Lira's murmur of assent. The River Running flows through the Craftsman's Level above them; perhaps if the floor was cracked during the dragon's attack, they will receive a trickle.

He is about to say something else - anything, even if it is completely inappropriate - to dispel the terrible quiet, when Lira speaks.

"Why were you in the Craf'sman's Hall yesterday?"

He blinks at the unexpected question. "I was learning under Master Hori," he replies, swallowing past the lump in his throat as he remembers his tutor's gruesome death. "We - the royalty, that is - have to learn one common craft. Father suggested jewelry-making." He cannot stop his nose from wrinkling - his father can be so _pushy_ sometimes.

Looking around at the gloomy settings, Frerin misses Thrain so _much_ that it hurts to breathe. _Oh, Father, what I wouldn't do to have you or Thorin here with me_ , he thinks, blinking away the suspicious moisture in his eyes. He is not even an adult by _human_ terms, for Mahal's sake, and though Dwarves may physically age at the same rate as Men, it is a widely held belief among Dwarrows that a Dwarfling does not fully mature until seventy. Were he any other Dwarf - and oh, how he wishes he was - he would be expected to display his grief. As a prince though, it seems his tutors managed to ingrain in him the need to conceal his emotions in front of all but family, and so not a sound comes from him to express his distress.

"I didn' know that - about the crafting," Lira muses, oblivious to his internal struggle. "My father wan'ed me t' try out a' least one other craft, in case I found my Calling elsewhere, but in the end I wen' back t' wire-working. It really is a family business - 't's a miracle Da even had time for a family." It is incredibly rare, for those Dwarves truly devoted to their craft, to have any other attachments.

"Your mother must be a truly remarkable woman," Frerin jokes. It is a common saying among Dwarrows, a safe jest that everyone understands. Lira chuckles lightly.

"Aye, she was," despite the past tense, there is only fondness in Lira's voice. The lack of grief makes Frerin think that her mother died a while ago, giving Lira some time to adjust. Or, perhaps she is only trained in hiding her emotions from strangers, like Frerin.

They fall silent for a while, though the atmosphere now feels companionable rather than awkward.

"I'm...sorry you had t' see what happ'ned t' Hori," Lira says eventually, sounding hesitant. "When my mother died - I never saw the body. Her death - 't's like i' never really happ'ned for me. One day she was there, the next; she was'n'. That's all."

She sounds small and young, and Frerin recalculates her age, feeling older than the woman even though it is obvious he is not. "Maybe," he says. "But Hori was...well, not exactly _motherly_ , you could say." He injects a little humor in his tone, trying to lighten the somber conversation. "A little too tough to be loved, per se. A good teacher, I suppose - certainly more tolerant than I would be," he trails off, only now recognizing the patience with which Hori had treated his wayward pupil. His gentleness had extended beyond a courtesy to a prince, he thinks.

Frerin is startled out of his melancholy thoughts by a hand on his arm.  He stops and turns to look at Lira, who is smiling gently at him. "It'll take time," she says. "No matter who it is you see, something like that'll take time to get over. 't's okay," she says, patting his arm, "'t's okay to mourn."

With that, she steps ahead of him, walking carefully through the dimly lit corridor. Her shadow extends faintly from her feet to cast odd shapes on the crudely cut walls, and Frerin stares after her for a few moments, only snapping out of his trance when she calls back: "coming?"

They continue walking, following the twists and turns of the dungeon corridors. Occasionally the walls reveal a crevice where a small barred door opens into a tiny cell - nothing bothers a Dwarf more than half-assed craftsmanship, and the dungeons of Erebor have rough, uneven walls and ceilings with varying heights; a subtle form of torture that slowly and unnoticeably wears away at the soul of a prisoner, leaving them bad-tempered and less stiff-lipped. Most do not even realize the effect that the shoddy architecture has on them, but Frerin had learned of it from Thorin, who had learned it from Balin, whose father, Fundin, the Captain of the Guard, had been alive when the plans for the dungeons were first made. Frerin explains this to Lira, who looks mildly impressed.

"I didn' realize the line of Durin understood subtlety," she remarks, a sidelong glance accompanying her teasing words. Frerin is not used to people jesting with him (outside of his family members). As far as he can tell, though, she means no disrespect. He allows himself a bit of self-depreciating humor, of which his father had often tried to rid him.

"You mean _Dwarrows_ don't understand subtlety," he corrects, "but pranking people - that, we are particularly good at." He describes a trick that he and his brother once played, moving random items in their parents' bedroom just a little bit - easy to find, but not where they were left. He regales Lira in the infinitesimal changes that can be made to a Dwarf's "space", how a quill not facing the right way or a rug just slightly off-kilter can ruin the day of a race that lives for symmetry. Her laughter echoes around them, livening their steps the teeniest bit and, it seems, lifting the gloom.

Several hours pass, with Frerin ad Lira exchanging jokes and stories. Frerin can feel his throat drying and his stomach protesting from lack of food, but he says nothing. He has no way to measure the passage of time, though surely a few hours have passed, at least. He tries not to think about it, instead listening to the tales that Lira has heard from the traders that frequent taverns.

Though the halls twist and turn, Frerin can sense the gradual curve that follows the core of the mountain. They steadily turn right, passing beneath the Gates and making their way to the west side of Erebor. Despite the massive damage that had occurred above them, this level is still fairly intact; they have not run into anything bigger than rocks the size of small eggs. It seems that Sub-Floor Three only experienced minor quivers from the dragon's rampage.

Finally - FINALLY - Frerin feels a slight draft of wind in the stifling corridor. His pace quickens eagerly, and Lira's does the same. His heart leaps when he hears voices - perhaps the Dwarves from above had already found a way down and were looking for survivors! Perhaps all his worrying was for naught; maybe the dragon had been defeated after all.

Turning the corner brings his hopes to a devastating halt. Seven Dwarves lie slumped against the walls by the corridor entrance, looking defeated. Two are leaning against each other, and one is kneeling in front of another, looking concerned. One Dwarf moves among the rest, carrying a rag and a crude wooden bowl; as Frerin nears, he recognizes the braids of a miner's healer in his beard.

One of the Dwarves looks up at the sound of approaching footsteps. Frerin is surprised to see a beardless lad, no more than forty, he guesses. The lad's eyes widen, and he scrambles up to sketch a bow. Frerin realizes that his own robes, though dusty and torn, still signify him as an heir of Durin: as royalty.

"Prince Frerin," an elderly Dwarrowdam says breathlessly, her knees popping as she slowly rises into a bow. The rest of the Dwarves struggle to their feet, nursing sore muscles and bruised skin. The healer forces one Dwarf to sit again but bows quickly to Frerin before resuming his work. Murmurs of "Prince Frerin" and "Your Highness" leave their lips quietly and die quickly, as if afraid to linger in the stale air. Their postures straighten, and their eyes brighten just a little, as if the sight of their prince immediately makes the situation better. Frerin forces down the fear that blossoms in his heart upon seeing their trust in him; he needs to be strong.

 "What happened?" he asked, trying to sound as authoritative as possible.

"The mines began to collapse." One Dwarf answers. "Some of the less stable supports gave way and crashed into others, started a chain reaction. A lot of the exits were blocked by the debris..." he trails off, visibly swallowing. The elderly woman speaks in the silence.

"The Sorter's Level was shaky. Gems and metals started flying everywhere. Everyone was trying to get up the stairs - many lost their footing and fell over the cliffs." Frerin nods, feeling his throat clench. The final sub-floor is the most dangerous, with the ground dropping away where the miners' harnesses carry Dwarves to and from the mines. The digging done in the depths of the mountain had left the floors unsteady, where a slight tremor could start the crack that destroys the lowest level. There had always been some miner's advocate trying to convince the council make the ground sturdier, but Frerin had been raised to believe those concerns were unfounded. Now he forces himself to remember the number - somewhere in the hundreds - of Dwarves that worked in the mines and  on the Sorter's Level. If these seven Dwarves are the only ones that had survived...

"How did you get down here? Is there another way up?" another Dwarf asks hopefully. Frerin eyes the Western Staircase. It has huge cracks running through it, as well as masses of rock piled on top if it, but it is in better shape than the Eastern Staircase. With a bit of shifting, and some very careful climbing, they may be able to reach the ground floor. Frerin shakes his head.

"The Eastern Staircase is destroyed; we came here in hoping of finding this one in better shape." The Dwarves visibly deflate.

"Then you came here for nothing. There's no way up."

"Not necessarily," Lira says, stepping forward to eye the stairs. "I have a cousin who's a mason; he told me some things about stone." The Dwarves watch her as she paces the length of the staircase, chin in her hand and head tilted thoughtfully. Finally she turns back to them, meeting Frerin's gaze.

"If we're careful, really careful, I think we can make it," she says. The miner that had spoken before snorts derisively, but Frerin speaks before he can say anything.

"Then we try it." He turns to the miner. "Did you manage to save any supplies?"

The miner hesitates, and the Dwarf whose head the healer is tending to speaks in his place. "Not much, but we got some ropes and such, managed to rig a harness so that we can get water from the floor below." He coughs, a nasty, rasping sound, and the healer orders him to hold still. A wave of relief washes over Frerin; food, Dwarves can go without for months on end, if absolutely necessary, but water is another matter.

"Do we have water here?" Frerin asks.

"We did, but most of it's dirty and bloody, now," another Dwarrowdam answers, indicating the bucket that the healer is using. Frerin spies another one next to it, likely empty. He turns to the surly miner.

"You: what's your name?"

"Kodi, milord," the Dwarf says, muttering the last part. Frerin ignores his disrespect.

"Kodi, take both buckets and get as much water as you can. Does anyone have a water skin?" Three Dwarves raise their skins in the air in response. "Take them as well, get fresh water in all of them. Please." he adds as an afterthought. Kodi says nothing but retrieves the buckets, following the healer's instructions to dump them over the edge of the staircase. The forty-year-old boy moves to help him with the harness, which is little more than a net lashed to a secure piece of rock. "Be careful, please," Frerin calls, hearing a muffled snort from where Kodi has disappeared. He has no doubt that the miner is adept at navigating treacherous caverns, but it still makes him uneasy to knowingly send a Dwarf into a dangerous area.

During Kodi's absence, the other introduce themselves; the elder woman is Rudin, the boy is called Tyllor, the healer; Gaffun, his current patient; Pallik. The other Dwarrowdam introduces herself as Drayn, and the last Dwarf, who had not spoken before, murmurs a quiet "Gheth, milord," before falling silent again. Gaffun finishes dabbing at the gash in Pallik's head and moves to Frerin, making the prince turn his head this way and that as the healer looks for wounds in the dim light. He soon determines Frerin to be well enough and moves on to Lira, tutting when he finds the lump on her head and forcing her to sit down so that he may tend to her. Several minutes pass before Tyllor hauls the rope with Kodi, two full buckets, and three water flasks on the other end. The miner looks disgruntled, perhaps about being asked to retrieve the water, but his expression softens slightly when Tyllor uses the dipper to help him drink.

The buckets and dippers are passed around to each Dwarf, and Frerin ensures that all the others have had their fill before taking some for himself. The cool liquid is sweet on his tongue, and he cannot help but guzzle as much as possible, thirst making itself known.

"Easy, lad," Gaffun warns, pulling at the ladle. "I know you're thirsty, but if you drink too much now you'll just throw it all back up." Frerin forces himself not to reach for the bucket - or worse, order Gaffun to give it to him. Thorin had once told him that he should _never_ abuse his position.

Feeling refreshed, Frerin eyes the staircase with new vigor. He looks at Kodi. "Can you tell me anything about these stairs?"

"They're broken," Kodi replies bluntly. Frerin simply gazes at him, not letting his exasperation show. Maybe if he pretends to be like Thorin, the others will respect him as they do his older brother.

Kodi holds his stare before rolling his eyes and moving to look at the pile of rubble. "A lot of damage," he says after a quick examination. "Very dangerous; if any of these boulders shifts, we could be crushed." He lightly pats one of the blocks of rock before moving to the other side of the staircase, muttering to himself all the while. "Tricky...lot of lifting, not much help..." Finally, he sighs and turns to Frerin. "It'll take hours, if not days, to move up this thing. But, the bottom stairs are supported by the mountain beneath, unlike the east side," he points to the solid rock formation beneath the steps, "and the damage seems light enough that we _might_ manage it without bringing the ceiling down upon our heads." Skepticism is heavy in his voice, as well as a healthy dose of cynicism, but to Frerin that means that he will not try to give them false hope. He turns to Gaffun.

"Is everyone well enough to do some climbing?"

"If we go slowly," the healer replies. "And take frequent breaks for water - the stronger Dwarves should bring full buckets with them so that we have as much as we can carry." Frerin nods, and Kodi moves to the harness with the half-empty buckets, gesturing for Gheth to handle the ropes. The others rise to their feet and stretch their limbs, eyeing the staircase and testing the feeling of the rock beneath their palms. The miners should have enough stone-sense to get them upstairs without falling, but very rarely are Dwarves willing to traverse such unsteady ground in the first place; they prefer making things strong before they walk on them.

Once Kodi returns, Frerin asks him to lead the way up, hoping that the display of trust will settle the Dwarf's sour mood. The experienced miner will be able to feel the best route with his hands, and the other men look much too injured to do the job properly; Gaffun supports Pallik, who had swayed when he first stood, and Drayn walks next to Gheth, who seems shocked more than anything. Tyllor carries one bucket, Frerin the other, and Lira walks with Rudin, ready to catch her should the older Dwarrowdam's legs give out.

No one had survived the attack unscathed, and even as Mahal's children, they struggle with the treacherous staircase. Several times, Frerin and Tyllor set down the buckets while Lira leaves Rudin leaning against a wall, and they work with Kodi to push massive blocks of stone over the side of the staircase, flinching with the loud sound of stone crashing and breaking, and trying to keep their balance as the floor beneath them shudders. Then they continue their trek, forcing bruised and sore legs up and over pieces of debris and steps that seem to get bigger the higher they go. They clamber over some areas, skirt around gaping holes in the floor and pull each other up in places where several steps have broken off, leaving a ledge too high to put one's feet on.

Nine bent forms almost collapse by the time they reach the second sub-level. Frerin's foot slams down hard as he unexpectedly reaches the top of the stairs. The last of the water from one bucket is rationed out, and the ladle barely leaves his lips before his body falls sideways into an exhausted slumber.

* * *

 The entire group wakes up to parched throats and rumbling bellies. Lira and Tyllor go off in search of water, and Gaffun examines Pallik's head wound, using some water from the remaining bucket to clean up to worst of the dried blood. Kodi grumbles something inaudible and stretches before moving to examine the staircase. Gheth uncurls himself from Drayn's side, looking more alert than he had the previous day, and dips his head to Frerin before joining the other miner.

Lira and Tyllor return, hauling full water skins and the bucket between them. Gaffun finishes his work on Pallik and gestures for them to dump the other bucket. Tyllor takes it and returns with fresh water, setting it down near the staircase before shaking his limbs of any lingering soreness and exhaustion.

"It is surprisingly quiet," Drayn remarks softly, looking at the massive columns and rubble scattered around the hall, which is only slightly less dim than the level below them had been. "I would expect them to have found a way down by now to search for survivors."

Frerin swallows, sharing a long glance with Lira. His brother's shout had been loud enough to reach the Craftsman's Hall, but apparently even Thorin's booming voice could not reach the lowest level of Erebor. The Dwarves around them believe that the shaking had only been a simple earthquake. He does not relish the thought of telling them the truth.

"What is it?" Kodi asks gruffly, walking towards the resting Dwarves with his arms crossed, and looking at Frerin with hard eyes. The prince does not know how to describe the events of the previous day; the words jumble and stick in his throat. After several tries, he speaks.

"I...do not believe that anyone is trying to find us," he says, grimacing at the gravity of his words, "I do not believe there is anyone left _to_ find us." Everyone looks at him, stunned, except for Lira, whose eyes are full of sadness. "Yesterday was no mere earthquake," he pauses, forcing the words through the block in his throat, "We were attacked by a dragon."

Silence descends in the hall. Most of the Dwarves have openly shocked expressions on their faces, though Gaffun's mien is grim. Kodi's expression is bewildered, though he still somehow manages to maintain his grumpiness.

"A dragon?" Drayn whispers, the blood gone from her face. Frerin nods, wishing he could offer comfort. They are quite literally in the worst-case scenario, and he has never had a great way with words.

"Well, that's it then," Kodi huffs, throwing his arms up in the air: a sign of defeat. "Don't know why you're asking us to climb; we go up there, we'll die."

Lira's eyes flare with anger, and she whips her head around to glare at him. "If we stay down here, we will die for cer'ain. There is a chance, however small, tha' we can escape the moun'ain. If you wan' to suffocate in this infernal dust-filled hallway, be my guest; in the meantime, I'm going to find a way out. I did no' survive the ceiling falling on my head only to give up now."

Kodi's eyes flash, and he looks ready to retort. Frerin speaks quickly, hoping to avoid a fight. They need to work _together_. "The dragon cares for nothing but his gold; as long as we stay away from the treasure room, we'll be okay. We're not trying to take anything with us, just get out of the mountain." He can see that his words provide very little comfort to the others, but Kodi's mouth snaps shut, and he reverts his glare to the floor.

"Come on," Frerin says, walking toward the staircase. "There's no point in lingering here. Can you lead us up?" he asks Gheth, who has remained by the staircase. He looks pale and shaken, and no more than ninety, which, while older than Frerin, is still fairly young for his kind. Despite his obvious fear, Gheth nods firmly, and Frerin smiles, clapping him on the shoulder.

Frerin once again is second up the stairs, though he would rather follow everyone else to make sure no one falls behind. The others might see it as weakness or cowardice, though, if he is not willing to go ahead of the others. Instead, Gaffun takes up the rear, while Tyllor and Kodi carry the water buckets and the others fall in between.

The climb goes even slower today, with large chunks completely blocking the stairs. A couple of times, the Dwarves have to halt their progress and move debris into the empty spaces of the stairs, creating a dangerously unstable platform that they carefully cross, not daring to risk more than one person at a time. Though Frerin has lost all track of time, he estimates that they have walked more than half a waking day by the time they reach the Market Level, which is now little more than splinters of wood buried beneath masses of stone. Despite the massive destruction on this floor, the staircase above them has less damage than below, and they only take a short break to regain their breath before moving up again. Though the dragon is a very real and frightening threat, no one, not even grumpy Kodi, wishes to stay on the sub-floors anymore.

After what could not have been more than two hours of climbing, they reach the ground floor. Rubble clutters the floor, but there are less cracks in the stone than Frerin had seen on the eastern side of the mountain. The west side is widely known to be less developed; perhaps the stability of unhewn rock kept it from suffering as much damage.

The mountain is utterly silent, but in his head, Frerin can hear the screams and shouts, the sounds of weapons clashing, rocks crashing, and a dragon roaring. There is evidence of livelihoods left behind here; random items that are scattered across the ground as Dwarves had dropped everything and run for their lives. Some did not make it, and the narrow hallway reveals a dozen or so bodies, trapped beneath stone, in the dying torchlight.

Frerin reaches for a torch, the flame on it burning low as the long-lasting oil begins to run out. He hears a sob, and sees Lira and Drayn comfort Rudin, the elderly woman staring at the scene with tears in her eyes, a hand covering her mouth. Tyllor and Gheth look around with pale faces, eyes wide and alarmed. The prince's lips press together, feeling the sorrow of his people add to his own. He turns to Gaffun and Kodi, whose expressions tell him they have seen death before.

"Search for survivors - anyone that's alive. Don't call out; we don't want any unwanted attention." Both Dwarves nod once, Kodi's usually choleric expression replaced by sadness. The two Dwarrows move among the bodies, checking for pulses and breath. They return wordlessly, shaking their heads. Frerin bows his head briefly, sending a quick prayer to Mahal that none suffered.

"Come on," he says gently, looking over the downcast group. "Let's find a place to sleep. We'll look for a way out tomorrow." They pick their way across the ruined hall, eyes staring fixedly ahead. Frerin forces himself to look at his people, destroyed by a dragon's greed. Anger burns low in his heart, but it is almost completely drowned by sorrow; a great wave of grief rising up and threatening to overwhelm him. He looks away.

They find a side corridor devoid of rubble - and bodies. The last of the water is passed around, the Dwarves certain that they will find more. It takes longer to fall asleep this time, but no one says anything. Frerin can guess their thoughts anyway, seeing the way their eyes flicker to the corpse-filled hallway, or out in the general direction of their very dangerous neighbor.

* * *

The next day, they cautiously make their way through the halls of Erebor. The silence that surrounds them is eerie; Frerin cannot remember a time when there has not been noise of some sort. Even in the late hours of the evening, Dwarves had worked in the mountain: the night patrols, the cleaners, the miners; even the chefs could often be found creating some elaborate recipe in the dead of night. Yet there is now no sound except their breaths and their footsteps echoing loudly around the desolated kingdom.

Frerin leads the way, having traversed the ground level of Erebor more than the others. Most Dwarves never leave the mountain, unless they are traders or, in Frerin's case, on political business (not that _he_ had ever been on political business, but he had occasionally accompanied his father and brother to Dale). They see less rubble as they near the Gates of Erebor, as if the dragon's rampage had only begun after it had entered the mountain.

Finally, they come upon the main causeway, and their feet stop working as their minds try to process the horror they see. The dragon's path is clear, not because of the cracks in the pillars, but because of the bodies, squashed to the floor like bugs, that litter the hallway. Some are civilians, their only identification being the robes they wear, whereas most are guards: Dwarves with armor now digging into dead, decaying flesh, their weapons scattered, bent, and broken. Some are not crushed, but lie limp against the walls, as if they had been thrown. Helms either rest on the floor or dig into skulls, the sight of blood, flesh, and bone all mashed together making bile rise in Frerin's throat, though he forces it down. Behind him, he hears a Dwarf retching quietly. The acrid stench reaches his throat, and he clenches his teeth, refusing to look.

His eyes follow the path south, where the Gates stand out of sight. He does not want to walk in this hall of the dead, but they _must_ find a way out. Gritting his teeth, he carefully steps forward, picking out the clearest path, though he still walks next to his fallen kinsfolk. The others follow silently behind him, their footfalls even more muted as if out of respect for the dead.

Despair fills him when he finally comes to a halt. In front of him is a large pile of rubble, rising higher than the entrance to Erebor. The gates lie on the ground on either side, twisted and bent, and blackened by dragon fire.

The way is shut.

He walks back and stops, turning around and staring at the pile, then walks back some more, trying to see if there is even a hint of light at the top.

"It's no use," a male voice says from the shadows. The group collectively jumps, startled, and turns. A Dwarf walks into the light, covered in dirt and blood. Shuffling is heard from behind him, and others come, a couple women, a boy, a few elders, and several menfolk. Frerin counts twelve Dwarves. They are all dirty and bloody, their eyes are dulled, their clothes are torn to rags. There is no hope in their eyes, only defeat.

"We tried to climb it, to see if we could move it." The first Dwarf shakes his head. "The only strength great enough to move it is that which put it there, and we won't get any help from _it_ ," he spits the last word, a flame of passion that is quickly extinguished by despair. Blue eyes look from the floor to Frerin, taking in the sweaty, dirty, Durin-blue robes. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. There's no way out."

Frerin looks over his own group, seeing the fear and resignation in Rudin's eyes, Kodi's seemingly-permanent frown deepen, and Tyllor's slender figure shake as he clings to Drayn, who looks no calmer. Gaffun's eyes are on the newcomers, frowning as he catalogues injuries, but Lira is looking at Frerin expectantly, as if he should know what to do next. He gazes at the rubble pile, feeling hopelessness threaten to overwhelm him, too.

Seemingly out of no where, he remembers his brother's shout. Thorin had been examining the battlements that day; surely he had survived? The thought of Thorin dying is unbearable, so Frerin quickly focuses on the thread of an idea he has. The battlements...if they can somehow get there, they may find a way to climb down.

"The battlements," he says, meeting the Dwarf man's gaze, "we can get to the battlements. There may be a way down."

It is, perhaps, a fool's hope. The massive architecture that surrounds the Gates of Erebor was made to be smooth; impossible for an enemy to climb. But if they can get to the mountainside, they may find a way down. They may _create_ a way down, possibly - for what good are Dwarves if they cannot work the stone beneath them?

"There's no point," the Dwarf argues tiredly.

"There is a point," Frerin says firmly. "The point is to survive. We have come from the depths of Erebor; some of us from the mines themselves. If we can make it that far, we can get to the battlements." He looks over his own group, seeing some of them nod. They will follow him. "Will you come too? Or will you sit here until your blood runs dry in your veins and your breath no longer fills your lungs?" The other Dwarf blinks, perhaps startled by Frerin's bluntness, but the prince does not care. He looks over the other Dwarves, some looking at him with a tiny spark of life in their eyes. A few are nodding even as the Dwarf in front of him gives his consent. "Lead the way," he says, bowing his head and gesturing for Frerin to take the lead.

Frerin steps into a side corridor, one usually reserved for members of the guard. There are many staircases that lead up to the battlements, intended to give warriors quick access in the event of war, but Frerin bypasses most of them. Several have piles of rubble blocking the entrance and spilling out into the narrow hallway, while others do not lead to where he wishes to go. He loves going up to the battlements and looking out at the lands surrounding Erebor, and knows these passages by heart.

He turns left and begins climbing the staircase, checking to see that all the Dwarves are following them. The staircase leads to the very top of the battlements, where the first tier of Erebor starts. It requires a great deal of climbing, but like the hallways they had encountered on the ground level, there is very little damage to the solid structure. Soon Frerin finds himself looking over the stone parapets, eyes taking in the devastation of the land before him. He hears his followers shuffle onto the walkway behind him, and sees their figures as they, too, look out, but does not turn his head.

Dale is in ruins, the buildings destroyed and lying broken in the streets. The once cheery red roofs and warm stone walls now look muted and bleak, an effect which is emphasized by the rain that falls over the ashen city and the landscape surrounding it. Despite it being the height of summer, Frerin cannot see a speck of green, not a blade of grass that remains, from the slopes of Erebor down to the Long Lake. Instead, blackened earth leads to grey water that reflects the dismal sky above. The view from the battlements had once been the most beautiful, bright, colorful image that Frerin had ever seen, apart from the jewels in the mountain. Now it is as if the dragon had leached all the color out of the land when he razed Dale and shook Erebor to its very bones.

Frerin finally looks to his right, where he had hoped to find a foothold, some ghost of a path that would take him and his kinsmen down the mountain. A pile of rocks lies in his way, and climbing atop them only reveals smooth rock as far as he can reach.

As he returns to the walkway on the battlements, he slips on the rain-slicked stones. The Dwarf that had spoken for the new group, who had introduced himself as Fjor, catches him, but the movement loosens some of the boulder on the pile. They shiver and shift, threatening to break free, and as the first pebbles fall, Frerin urges everyone into another corridor, one that will lead them to the main walkway of the second floor. They file through quickly, their pace increasing as the rumble grows louder and rock begin tumbling behind them. Soon they are running, panic seizing them as the front of the mountain shakes. The light from outside disappears as the parapet entryway is sealed by the avalanche, and dust falls around their heads as they exit the hallway. They fall to the ground, panting and coughing, as the tremors cease, and stay as still as possible, listening for the sound of a dragon coming to investigate. It does not come, perhaps assuming that the rock fall had only been boulders still shifting and settling after the attack.

The silence is filled with voices; no one says a word, but Frerin can guess what each and every one of them is thinking. Many would feel hopeless, believing that there is no other way out. Some may still look to him for guidance, while others (no _specific_ names come to mind) would only think of their prince with derision, the "I told you so" on the tips of their tongues.

He closes his eyes, allowing his mind to follow the paths and corridors of the mountain. Each level appears in his mind's eye, and he walks among them, turning his head left and right for passages, trying to remember the details of the great mountain halls. His eyes snap open.

"The Western Guardroom."

Confusion mars the faces of the Dwarves around them, though Fjor, whom Frerin guesses is a retired guard, only looks doubtful.

"We can try to make for the Western Guardroom," Frerin elaborates. "There is a passage there that leads outside the mountain."

"We'll have to pass right by the treasure room," Fjor point out. "The dragon will be sure to notice us."

"Amongst the scent of a thousand dead?" Frerin replies bluntly. The Dwarves flinch. "No, somehow I do not think our scent will bring him running. We must be quiet, though - quieter than any Dwarf has ever been before."

Some of the Dwarves still look skeptical, but Lira rises from her seat against the wall, and Pallik and Gaffun follows suit. Their movements spark the others into action; some rise with great difficulty, depending on the walls and the aid of another Dwarf before being able to fully stand. They make their way slowly across the level, sticking as closed to the outside of the mountain as possible. They seem to collectively hold their breaths as they edge by the treasury, which, despite being nearly two hundred feet away, still makes them wary.

Frerin intends not to rest until they reach the Western Guardroom, but once they are a safe distance away from the treasury, Gaffun calls out quietly. "Prince Frerin," he says, "with all due respect, we must stop."

Frerin turns around to see that many of the Dwarves are breathing heavily and favoring injured limbs. Some stand with clenched jaws, clearly hiding pain. Frerin nods. "Very well," he tells the miner's healer. Immediately, many Dwarves practically drop, resting against the walls with their legs splayed out across the floor. Several are pale beneath the dirt and blood that covers their skin. Some seem less injured, though. Frerin gestures to a man that seems to have suffered the least of the damage.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Tirg, Your Highness," the other replies, his impressive, bushy black beard moving with his words.

"Tirg, go with Lira to find water," Frerin instructs, finding the Dwarrowdam among the others. She rises from her place next to Rudin, grabbing the two water buckets that had miraculously survived their journey. "If you find any more serviceable buckets around, take them, too. We'll need more water now," he tells her. She nods, and the two Dwarves move off in search of a water source.

Frerin looks over the other Dwarrows gathered. His eyes find Tyllor, whose youthful energy seems to have sustained him better than the adult Dwarves. He and Gheth stand together, and Frerin beckons them to him. "You two will come with me; we're going to find a kitchen and bring back as much food as we can." The two Dwarves brighten at the mention of food, straightening slightly as they nod to him. Frerin seeks out one more Dwarf. "Fjor," he calls. The older man looks to him. "You're in charge until we get back." Fjor nods sharply, his figure forming a guard's stance as he watches the remaining Dwarves keenly. Frerin congratulates himself for correctly guessing the old Dwarf's previous occupation.

He, Tyllor, and Gheth make their way through the corridors, Frerin leading as he remembers sneaking out for late-night snacks. Such youthful acts seem to have happened an age ago.

It is not long before he is pushing a stone door - used to keep vermin out of the kitchens - aside, revealing a messy room. Half-cooked meals, utensils, pots and pans lie scattered about the room. Many of the heated foods look burned, as if the chefs had fled the room without extinguishing the fires.

"Don't touch it," Frerin warns sharply, and Tyllor's reaching hand retreats from what looks to be some sort of chicken stew. "We leave everything perishable alone; the last thing we want to do is poison anyone. Find the pantry - it should have some lasting food in it." The three Dwarves spread out, looking through cupboards and cabinets. Gheth finds the doorway to the pantry, and Tyllor and Frerin follow him into it, coughing as dust swirls in the air.

Frerin uses his dying torch to light one on the wall and hands it to Tyllor. They examine boxes, barrels, and crates, finding large quantities of individual ingredients such as flour, sugar, and herbs. Some barrels are marked as salted meats, which, while delicious-sounding, are uncooked. The meat can last a long time, but Frerin does not want to light a fire so close to the dragon. They bypass the tempting morsels.

Finally, they find what they are looking for. An area marked "travelling supplies" yields barrels of dried and spiced meats, roasted nuts, and cram. Using ropes that someone must have decided to leave in the pantry for this purpose, they manage to rig a system which allows them to roll four barrels behind them. Frerin memorizes the location of the kitchen for further use before shutting the door firmly behind them, and they set off towards the rest of the group.

In their absence, Gaffun has tended to several of the injured Dwarves. Two buckets of fresh water sit on the ground, and Pallik and another Dwarf return with three more. Still wary of alerting the dragon, the cheers are reduced to whispers at the sight of the food, though they are no less enthusiastic. Frerin, Tyllor, and Gheth work quickly to open the barrels, passing out nuts and meat to the older and injured Dwarves first before feeding the others. There is plenty to go around, and after three days of no food, the meager meal is a feast. The cram, Frerin intends to save for later, when - if - all the supplies run out. For now, he will let them enjoy the more flavored food.

He claps Fjor on the shoulder and thanks him for keeping watch before walking a little ways away from the others. He intends to eat alone, but to his surprise, Fjor follows him.

"They fear for tomorrow," the retired guard rumbles. Icy blue eyes pierce Frerin. "You cannot keep feeding them on false hopes and empty promises." Frerin watches the Dwarrows. Soft whispers and muted laughs rise up and disappear into the still air, the mood already improved with solid food.

"I do not intend to give them false anything," he replies, turning back to Fjor. "But what can I do? They look to me to lead them. I will not tell them that all hope is lost. I do not believe it myself; not yet." Fjor is silent for a long time, seeming to suffer an internal struggle. Frerin knows it well. Pessimism wars with optimism in his heart, and he is desperately hoping that good news is closer to reality than bad.

"I will follow you, My Prince. You have within you a spark that has not yet died, and you can yet see light where I do not. And though I can no longer see the world as kindly as you do, it warms my heart simply to trust one with such faith." Fjor bows at the waist, long, white-grey beard brushing the floor. "Fjor, son of Foldun, at your service to the very end."

"May that end be far away," Frerin replies, resting his hand of Fjor's shoulder as the Dwarf straightens. "Glad am I of your loyalty. I fear I will need it before this struggle ends." His eyes linger on Kodi, who does not smile with the rest. Instead, his eyes are dark with sadness as he stares at a random spot on the floor; yet, as always, there is anger in his gaze. Something troubles the Dwarf, and Frerin doubts that he will stay silent for much longer.

* * *

 They have a quick breakfast of meat and nuts washed down with water before they continue toward the Western Guardroom. Spirits are higher this morning, no doubt due to the recent meals. Though they keep their voices quiet, the Dwarves following Frerin speak animatedly among each other, exchanging names and trading tales to pass the time. He speaks with Fjor – who walks to his left and half a step behind him – asking the older Dwarf about his time in the guard and other related topics. Despite the older man's overbearing politeness, they manage to hold a decent conversation.

Many times, the troupe must stop to shift piles of rubble, which grow in size and frequency the further they walk. Thankfully, these stops provide rest for the weaker Dwarves, and it does not take long before they move again. Finally, they reach the Western Guardroom. Frerin passes first through the door, the others filing in quickly behind him. They all stop dead.

The wall, like so many others, is collapsed, effectively blocking the exit. It is the furthest thing from Frerin's mind.

Lying around the room are more than a dozen fresh corpses. Some already show blackened veins beneath their pale skin, and cloudy eyes, but others have clearly not been dead long. There are no injuries on them – at least, none of consequence; their clothes are a little dusty, their hair a little mussed. None move; no eyes open at the sound of newcomers, no mouths or hands twitch in some desperate call for help.

Frerin stares, horrified and uncomprehending, as the silence falls thickly around them. The air in here is musty and stale: the result of several bodies crammed into a small space for a long period of time.

“I don't...understand,” he chokes out, finally breaking the silence. “How did they die?”

“Dehydration,” Gaffun says lowly, grief layering his voice. “They've gone too long without water. Fools – why did they stay here?” The answer lies unspoken in the air – because they had had no hope, the same as the Dwarves that now stand behind Frerin.

Frerin frowns, recounting in his head. “But...how many days can a Dwarf go without water?”

“Six, maybe seven, depending on how much he had in him before he stopped drinking,” Gaffun replies. It still does not make sense – Frerin has slept for four nights since the dragon's attack. These Dwarves should be dehydrated, but alive.

“We must'a been down there longer th'n we though',” Lira says, coming up beside him, her eyes scanning the corpses. “Withou' the torches and bells, the regular mealtimes...we must've slept longer, walked longer. Who knows how many days have ac'shully passed?”

Frerin's eyes close, the truth of her words running through his veins like poison, making his heart ache and squeezing his throat painfully. “Check for any survivors,” he says quietly, eyes still closed as he prays for a miracle.

A dry rasping sound catches his attention, and his eyes snap open to see a Dwarrowdam with a babe clutched to her chest struggling to move. He is next to her in two steps, crouching down as he looks at her. “Gaffun!” he calls sharply, hearing the healer come up behind him.

“My...baby...” the woman gasps, her tongue fighting every word. She tries to hold her child up, arms shaking with the effort. Frerin gently takes the babe and hands her to the healer, turning back to the woman and grasping her hand.

“Hold on just a minute, Ma'am,” Frerin begs quietly, staring intensely into her eyes as if to keep her from dying through sheer force of will. She shakes her head, a tiny movement against the stone she rests upon.

“Take...care...of her,” she forces out, high-pitched whines accompanying her slowing breaths. “Name...is...Khala...”

“Gaffun,” Frerin says urgently, turning to look at the healer, a plea in his voice.

“Swear it!” the woman's voice, though a whisper, is suddenly strong, her hand gripping Frerin's painfully. He meets her gaze, seeing the desperation in her eyes. He swallows.

“I swear, on my life and my line, that as an heir of Durin, I will take care of your child,” he vows to her. She relaxes against the rock, grip loosening. Her eyes move to her daughter. He sees one last flicker of love in them before a light in the dark gaze seems to die, and her hand falls limp in Frerin's grasp.

“Gaffun!” he half-shouts. The healer carefully gives the babe to Lira, who hovers behind them, and turns to the Dwarrowdam, checking her pulse and breath. Mere seconds go by before he leans back, shaking his head. “There is nothing more we can do for her.”

Gaffun reaches forward, gently closing the Dwarrowdam's eyelids and brushing his fingers down her cheek, his mouth moving silently in a final prayer.

“Prince Frerin,” Tirg says from a few feet away. “These two are still alive.”

Frerin and Gaffun move to where Tirg kneels, where two dark-haired Dwarrows lie, their chests barely moving. Gaffun gestures for Frerin to retrieve a bucket of water; once he does, the healer uses the dipper to pour water in the Dwarves' mouths. Frerin can see their throats working to swallow the essential liquid, though their eyes remain closed. For several minutes, Gaffun dribbles water into the parched Dwarves' mouths as the rest of the Dwarrows look on silently. Finally, the healer leans back, joints popping as he rests on his heels.

“There is nothing more I can do, for now. We will have to keep giving them water, and hope that they wake up on their own.”

Frerin nods, rising on stiff legs. He looks to the living Dwarves, assessing their sober expressions and watery eyes. “Kodi, Pallik, Tirg, Thak, carry these two,” he gestures to the Dwarrows lying at his feet. Turning back to Gaffun, he asks, “what of the child?”

“I've given her some water; it seems that her mother did whatever she could to keep her alive. I do not know if she will survive, but she has more hope now than she did an hour ago.”

"Very well. Let's go."

"Go where?" Thak, a member of Fjor's group, is the one that asks. "There is nowhere left to go."

Frerin does not have an answer, so he uses all the authority of his station to reply. "This way. Follow me."

The group slowly shuffles back out of the Western Guardroom, the light atmosphere from earlier that morning gone, along with their hope. Kodi and Thak carry the Dwarrowdam while Pallik and Tirg haul the other Dwarf, struggling a little to maneuver the awkward weight around corners and over rubble. Frerin walks with no particular destination in mind - perhaps back to the kitchens? Or maybe higher, to the very top of Erebor, where only scribes and royalty are allowed to roam.

In the end, they have very little choice in the matter. Whether by coincidence or with the intent of finding any remaining Dwarrows, the dragon, it seems, has left the treasury.

The first warning they have is a subtle rumble, a mere echo of the chaos that had occurred a week ago. Thumps, like heavy feet hitting the ground, follow, along with a low growl that reverberates through the stone. The Dwarves pick up their pace, heading toward the Western Staircase. Gheth and Tyllor move to help carry the unconscious Dwarves, and the company is running as quietly as it can, boots hitting the floor all too loudly, in Frerin's opinion.

'Well," a voice like thunder rumbles, full of malice and sadism, "it appears some sheep survived the slaughter." The group slows to a halt and turns around, staring as a massive brown-red head attached to a neck appears. Clawed wings follow as the dragon's yellow eyes lock on them from its perch.

"To the Western Staircase!" Frerin orders, shoving one of the Dwarves forward and gesturing for the others to keep running as he watches the dragon. Fear coils uncomfortably in his stomach as he stares at the great beast, but he keeps his eyes on it, watching for any movement to indicate that it will attack.

"Flee, if you will. There is nowhere to go, _nowhere_ to hide. I will _enjoy_ feasting on your fear-tinged flesh. Run, and make good sport." The dragon waits, watching Frerin's people as an eagle does its prey, knowing that all the time in the world will not be enough to spare them. Frerin's feet move sideways, his head determined to never look away even as his body demands that he take flight and save his life. He sees the great chest glow between the scales like hot iron.

"Take cover!" he shouts, following his own order and sprinting across the floor to duck behind a stone pillar. A few seconds later, dragon-fire burns hot in the space he had just occupied, leaving his hair singed and his face uncomfortably warm. He runs along the inside of the columns, catching up to the rest of the group and ushering them forward. The Western Staircase lies before them, and they hurtle themselves down the steps. At this point, Kodi and Tirg have hoisted the two Dwarves over their shoulders, and their helpers run next to them, ensuring that they do not lose their footing. Lira clutches Khala tight to her chest, her steps aided by Drayn.

They are almost to the second sublevel when darkness descends around them. The dragon looms above them, its enormous mass blocking out the light of the ground level. He chases them down, chest glowing and eyes burning. Frerin shouts for the company to take shelter on the Craftsman's Level, and dragon-fire whooshes past them as they fall to the floor. Rudin cries out as flames attack her robe, but they are quickly doused by the combined efforts of several Dwarrows.

Stone crashes down, destroying the staircase both above and below them. The Dwarves run further into the Craftsman's Level, a dragon pounding the ground behind them. Frerin sees dangling ropes up ahead - the express connection between the Craftsman's and Sorter's Levels. "Grab the ropes!" he shouts, hoping that his voice is not drowned by the din around him. Luckily, he sees a few Dwarves leap at the edge of the hole in the floor, hands reaching for the flexible steel cables. More Dwarves leap, swinging other ropes towards the edge to make them easier to grasp. Kodi and Tirg catch their own ropes and disappear in a blink, the extra weight dragging them down. Frerin watches as Lira jumps and grasps the rope one-handed, her arms and legs twisting to find a better grip.

Frerin feels hot air rush above him as he jumps. The sound of teeth snapping follows him as he descends through the floors, the trip not half as fun as he had once thought it would be. Without the proper seats and harnesses, the descent is terrifying; particularly that he must rely on his own strength to control it. Stone and air rush by him as he goes down, down, down, further down than he has ever been before. Darkness rests below him, a frightening black abyss that pulls him towards it. He does not know where the bottom is.

He is fairly certain he hears something snap when he finally hits the bottom, his feet collapsing beneath him as he tips over into an ungraceful heap. It takes his eyes several moments to adjust, and he sees the rest of the Dwarves in similar positions, except for those who have already risen. He scrambles up, grimacing when he puts weight on his right foot - yes, he definitely injured it.

A bright light appears above as the dragon attempts to send one last bout of fire after them, though it disappears long before it reaches them. They are in the mines now, a place of unstable supports and unknown threats lurking in the darkness.

"Did everyone make it?" he asks roughly, his voice painfully hoarse. A figure, which looks like Gaffun in the dim light, rises from a kneeling position. "This one's in bad shape - he hit the rock a little too hard on the way down." Frerin sees the Dwarf from the Guardroom lying in front of the healer. Only a second later, the healer withdraws his hands from the Dwarf's neck and shakes his head.

"Rudin's also dead," a woman's voice says quietly. She is kneeling next to the elderly Dwarrowdam's form, her hand stroking the grey hair gently. "She fell too fast, lost her grip on the rope..."

"May Mahal guide her home," Frerin murmurs softly, the others repeating the prayer. "Anyone else?"

His eyes flicker over the others, trying to do a headcount. He sees everyone from his original group, minus Rudin, shaky but alive. Fjor informs him that the people from his own group all survived the fall.

Even as he watches, the Dwarves around him slump to the ground, despair and exhaustion penetrating the deepest parts of their souls. They had survived on a desperate hope, only to see it disappear in dragon-fire, and now their spirits are bent and broken; they no longer try to hold themselves up.

Frerin watches the group slip into what he hopes is peaceful slumber, though he remains awake. his ears take in the breathing of nearly two dozen Dwarves, and his eyes flicker from one dirtied body to the next. His heart his torn, his mind a whirl of emotions, doubts, and worries. He had been so certain that there would be a way out of Erebor - one tiny crevice which they could claw their way through, if need be. But to have every exit, every crack, every source of fresh air blocked by the dragon's rampage, seems impossible.

He does not know where they will go next, or how they will survive. Oh, they can sneak around Erebor, gathering dry foods and hauling buckets of water, but neither resource is infinite, and the hopes of his people rely on more than a few dangerously acquired rations.

He is interrupted from his musings by a soft shuffling sound. In the dim light, he sees Lira, with a bundle clutched to her chest, walking toward him. Once she reaches him, she sits on the rock beside him and looks at the other Dwarves.

"Should'ja no' be sleeping, Yer 'ighness?" she asks softly

"If only it were that easy," he replies. She looks sideways at him, her eyes sharp and intelligent.

"Pr'aps 'is Royal 'ighness's too worried t' sleep," she adds. Frerin looks at her, wanting to say everything - to spill his doubts and fears in the still air and have her sooth his concerns away. But she is a commoner, and Frerin a prince; he cannot show weakness.

"'t's alright to tell me," she says gently. She looks at him kindly, her soft eyes encouraging him to speak. She is so like a mother, he thinks, caring and compassionate.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he blurts out, quite before he had decided to tell her anything. "I don't know _what_ to do, or how to take care of them," he gestures to the sleeping Dwarves.

"Y'seem ta be doin' a good job of i' so far,"

"So far," he stresses. "Up until now, I've had a plan; an inkling of an idea of where we can go. But now..." he gestures vaguely in the air, "it's all pointless. We can't get out."

"With all due respect, Yer 'ighness, quit mopin'." The sharp tone startles him, and he stares at her, wide-eyed. She raises an eyebrow at him, any sense of deference towards royalty gone. "We are Dwarves, Yer 'ighness. Same as the people tha' built the moun'ain - an' the exits in i'." Her meaning is quite clear.

"You think we should dig our way out?"

"In all honesty, Prince Frerin, the thought's been in my head for a while now. Now it's lookin' like the only option." He considers this plan, thinking about the possibilities, the potential difficulties.

"We'd need tools, and sustenance until we got out," he murmurs, thinking of the thousands of tools lying around unused on the upper levels. Finding supplies would be a minor problem, as long as they could get back up; something that would require a great deal of rigging and even more caution.

He asks the biggest question in his head. "Do you think they would follow me?" He feels as if he has already walked a thousand miles wearing Thror's gold crown, and the weight of it ill-suits him.

At Lira's questioning glance he shrugs. "It may have escaped your notice, but I'm only fifteen; not even close to being old enough to lead anyone."

Lira hums, staring at the sleeping lumps. "I 'ould follow you. So would some of the others, withou' question. As fer the rest," she sighs. Dwarves value and respect their elders, and rank is often determined by age, after royal lineage. All Dwarrows, from the youngest to the oldest, the poorest to the richest, the lowest class to the highest, know this. "you'll have to prove yerself, show tha' you deserve their loyalty." She shrugs. "That's the way of the worl', Prince Frerin. I'll help however I can."

"Thank you," he says, grateful for the loyalty of one other Dwarf. Lira is right - he will have to win their trust. But perhaps it will not be so hard; after all, what better way to do so than to free them from their mountain prison?

* * *

Frerin is one of the first to awaken, and he sees that the others move sluggishly, as if sleep had not given them any new energy. The younger Dwarves seem more alert, but the rest rise as if invisible hands are pushing them back down. He knows, with a dull ache in his heart, that this snail's pace means that they have already given up any hope of surviving. Hopefully, he can shake them out of it one last time.

"Come on, up you get," he says with forced energy, hopping down from his perch on some rocks. "We've got lots to do, no point in waiting around."

"And what exactly is it that we are supposed to be doing, Prince Frerin?" one Dwarf asks crankily. "There's no way out of these dark-infested tunnels, let alone out of the bloody mountain itself. We've tried every exit there is, and it's hopeless."

Frerin opens his mouth to retort, but an elderly Dwarrowdam speaks before he can. "We are grateful for everything you've done for us, My Prince. Truly, we are. But let us enjoy our last days in peace, rather than running around on the foolish hope that we _might_ find a way out." Many of the Dwarves murmur their agreement, sounding half-dead already.

A fire burns hot in Frerin's chest, and those that bother to look see his eyes blaze with anger. How dare they give up? Are they dead yet? No. Is the dragon chasing them? No. If anything, they are better off now, knowing where to find food and water, knowing that searching for an entrance is a waste of time. Since when do Dwarrows give up so easily?

His mouth opens, jaw working as he tries to think of the right words to say. He sees Lira, the Dwarrowdam nodding firmly at him, her own eyes reflecting his determination. Fjor watches him as well, and though there is no fire in his gaze, it does not seem as if he has given up completely. Frerin turns to the Dwarf that had first spoken, anger deepening his voice as words flow through his mouth.

"As long as I breathe, there is hope for me. And the same goes for all of you. We are _Khazad_. We do not give up. We do not give in. We fight for what is ours to the very end, until we get what we want, or until we die trying; and I _would_ rather die trying to escape these Valar-forsaken tunnels than sit here and wait for death to claim me. And if you have any pride at all, you will do the same. _We_ are the Dwarves of Erebor, now. And we _will not_ give up."

 His body is shaking with fury, his fists clenched and his eyes glowing. The Dwarves look to him, small sparks of hope flickering in their gazes.

"And why should we follow you?"

Kodi stands, hard gaze on Frerin. His arms are crossed and his chest is puffed out, and finally, it seems, the miner will speak his mind. "Why should we listen to the words of a fifteen-year-old brat? You've never had a hard day's work in your life - or any work, for that matter. The golden prince, the spoiled heir," he sneers. "What makes you think you are fit to lead your elders, when you are barely old enough to read?"

For the briefest second, Frerin pauses as the man's words echo every doubt he has had since he had introduced himself to Lira. He considers giving in, of letting someone else take the reins while he fades quietly into the background. Then he mentally gives himself a shake. If they had been following Kodi all this time, they would still be trapped by the dungeons with no food and no hope. _He_ is the prince of Durin, not the miner, and _he_ has a plan. If Kodi would like to do something other than complain, Frerin will listen. Until then...

"I have been trained, since the day I was born, to lead my people," he growls lowly, keeping his eye fixed on the other Dwarf. "I am _meant_ to serve you, and serve you I shall, in whatever way possible."

"The royal line of Durin knows _nothing_ of serving others! Only themselves," Kodi hisses, eyes flashing in anger.

"We have always served our people!" Frerin retorts. "My grandfather—"

"If I were you, I would not claim any relation to the King, boy!"

"Are you implying there's something wrong with my grandfather?" Frerin takes a step forward, body prepared to fight. Kodi looks just as tense.

 "Your grandfather was a greedy Elf-whore who cared more about the gold in his mines than the people!"

"That's a lie! My grandfather was a great King! He united the seven Dwarf kingdoms! He brought prosperity to Erebor! How dare you speak ill of the King!?"

"Your grandfather brought the dragon upon us all!"

"The dragon came for the gold! It came because we were wealthy! And do you know," Frerin says, his voice lowering but still quaking with anger, "that if we'd had no gold, you would have complained about that? People like you are never satisfied with your leaders. You could have everything you wanted - and we did - and you'd still be unhappy. What more do you want?"

"FOR MY DAUGHTER TO HAVE SURVIVED," Kodi finally roars. He stumbles backwards, away from Frerin. His shoulders slump, his posture taking on that of a defeated man. "For those that gave the King his gold to have enough left to take care of their children. We didn't need much - not a thousand gold coins a year - but we needed more than we got. My baby girl, Prince Frerin - all she needed was some hot food and a few herbs. Can you tell me why your grandfather wouldn't give it to us?" A vast ocean of sorrow swims in the brown depths of Kodi's eyes, tears finally falling to leave glistening tracks down his dirty face.

Frerin falls absolutely still, shock freezing him. The grief-stricken words of the man in front of him drain him of all anger. His mind whirls, trying to defend Grandpa Thror's actions - surely, he would have helped; children are precious to Dwarves. But there is no lie in Kodi's eyes, and Frerin finds that he cannot justify his grandfather's actions.

"I don't know," he admits quietly after a long silence. "I don't know why he didn't help you. But I do know this: I am not my grandfather. I never will be; whether you see that as good or bad, it is the truth. But I swear to you," he vows, stepping forward to grasp Kodi's shoulder, and feeling relieved when the miner does not turn away. He looks at the other Dwarves, trying to convey the truth of his words with his eyes. "I swear to all of you, I fight for you. I breathe for you; my heart _beats_ for you. I will not rest until each and every one of you is safe and well." He turns back to Kodi.

"Let me lead you. Let me prove to you that I can do this. I will not sit by and watch you work. I will not bask in the fruits of _your_ labor. I will work with you, and for you. Let me show you that I can."

Kodi merely looks at him, and Frerin's hand falls away. But a shuffling sound fills the silent mines; Dwarrows rise to their feet, standing to face their prince. They bow their heads to him before meeting his gaze again, their silent vows of loyalty giving him strength. Hope is, perhaps, too strong a word, but their eyes are filled with grim determination.

Kodi steps away from him, shame and sorrow in his eyes. The miner meets his gaze for only a moment, tipping his head to the side. It is not necessarily a promise from the surly Dwarf, but rather an invitation, a willingness to let Frerin prove himself.

Frerin looks around at the assembled Dwarves, taking in their conditions. A plan begins to form in his mind, jobs to be allocated and things to be done.

"My Prince?" one Dwarrowdam asks. "What is it that you intend to do?"

Frerin turns to meet her gaze, a grin on his face. "I intend to tunnel our way out of here, dear Lady," he replies.

At first, nothing. Then a flash of white here, and there, and there; teeth gleaming in the near-darkness as grins appear on the Dwarrows' faces. Tunneling, they can do.

Frerin asks Kodi, Tyllor, Pallik, and Gheth to lead them through the mines. "We need to get back up there, find food, supplies, and a quick and safe way to move up and down." The four Dwarves look a little skeptical, but confer with each other in muted mutters before leading the rest of the group through the twisting tunnels. They walk for some time, grabbing ropes, cables, and bits of metal that the miners claim are used to hold climbing ropes. They also stop by a natural pool, which is safe to drink from, according to Pallik. Gaffun tends to any remaining injuries, checking on the wellbeing of the unconscious Dwarrowdam and Khala, whose skin is pale and dry.

The Dwarrowdam will be fine, according to the healer. The baby, however, is another matter. Judging by Gaffun's expression, and the low volume which he uses to avoid the ears of the other Dwarrows, Khala will most likely not survive. Frerin nods, sighing with disappointment as he eyes the two bodies that the Dwarves have been carrying. He does not need to tell Gaffun to keep trying, but forces himself to accept the fact that he may lose another member of his company.

Finally, their four guides stop at a clearing. Above them, the ceiling is much higher; in fact, it looks as if it may stretch to the top of the mountain. "This'll be our way up," Pallik says, head tilted as he gazes upward.

"Very well. Thank you, all of you," Frerin says. Looking around, he sees exhaustion slumping the shoulders of the Dwarves around them. Those that have not been burdened with Rudin's and the unknown Dwarf's body have been carrying every piece of climbing material they could find, as well as a bucket that had been lying on the ground, now filled with water, and the small amount of food they had managed to keep on their persons through their harried escape the previous day. "We rest here for the night," he decides, "and then climb in the morning."

The Dwarves around him drop gratefully down onto the floor, shedding their burdens and leaning against the hard stone gratefully. Frerin also relieves himself of the coil of metal cable he had found, and quickly falls asleep.

* * *

 He wakes to the sound of metal being driven into stone. Sitting up abruptly, he looks behind him to see Pallik, Gheth, and Tyllor standing at the base of the stone wall they will attempt to climb, while Kodi is already up the rock face a few feet. He has a rope harness attached to his waist, and a length of rope is threaded through a detachable clip on the makeshift belt. He is, as far as Frerin can tell, hammering closed hooks into the rock and then attaching clips with the rope running through them to the hooks. As he climbs farther up, Pallik grabs hold of the loose end of rope, coiling the slack around his feet as he watches Kodi work.

Frerin rises and makes his way across the sleeping bodies to observe their work. Pallik's eyes flicker to him briefly before turning back to Kodi.

"We thought we might as well get a head start, seeing as how we can't do anything else until the rope is up," the Dwarf explains. "Kodi's been working in the mines the longest, and he's the heaviest out of the four of us. If he can't find a safe path, no one can."

Frerin nods, looking up at the wall with keen eyes. He can see the path that Kodi has picked out; it is one with many jagged and jutting edges that will hopefully provide steady hand- and footholds for the climbing Dwarves. He prays that they will have enough rope, hooks, and rock surface to get to where they need to go.

It takes about a half an hour for the rest of the Dwarves to wake up. Gaffun immediately checks on his two patients, reporting no change in either of them and giving them both the rest of the leftover water. Frerin calls all the Dwarves over before anyone can go running off in search of more, though he leaves Pallik and Kodi to their work.

"Once Kodi is finished, we will need several groups to go to different levels of Erebor." He turns to Gheth. "We will need to transport a lot of supplies down here; you and Tyllor will be responsible for rigging the ropes we'll need for that. Kodi and Pallik will help, though I'm also depending on them to move everyone else up and down the rock wall without falling." Pallik waves his hand to show that he heard Frerin. The prince turns to Gaffun next.

"What do you need to treat current and future injuries?" Gaffun rattles off a list of herbs, poultices, and other healing supplies, most of which go over Frerin's head. He turns to the rest of the group. "Did anyone understand what he just said?" A few chuckles are audible, but three Dwarves raise their arms. "Good. You three will be responsible for finding the stuff that Gaffun needs, and getting it to this rock wall so that Tyllor and Gheth can move it down." The Dwarves nod.

"Lira, you will give Khala to Drayn and take four Dwarves with you to the Craftsman's Level. Find as many stone-working tools as you can, as well as anything else that you think may be useful. We'll probably have to go to the Sorter's Level eventually, but for now we'll take what we can find there. Drayn, you will stay here with Gaffun and help him with taking care of Khala and the Dwarrowdam, as well as anyone that manages to get hurt today. Everyone else, you will be with me, looking for food on the Residence Level." The Dwarves nod, satisfied in receiving a task, and Lira and Frerin quickly divide up which Dwarves will go get the tools and which ones will get the food.

A zipping sound turns Frerin's attention to the rock wall. Pallik is bracing himself and feeding the rope; within seconds, Kodi slams hard onto the ground, feet first. He is not smiling, unsurprisingly, but there is an excited gleam in his eye that Frerin counts as a small smirk.

"Right," Kodi says gruffly, "there's a rope that goes to the ground level, but from there it'll be stairs. Shouldn't be too bad - we're on the northeast side of the mountain," which is far, far away from the entrance to Erebor, and the treasury.

Tyllor and Gheth distribute harnesses for everyone, and the groups quickly disappear up the rope. Gheth leads Lira's group, while Tyllor goes with the three healers. Kodi leads Frerin's group last, promising to remain with Tyllor and make the riggings while Gheth returns to the mines to aid Pallik. Communication will not be a problem, as the miners have developed their own code using rope tugs.

Frerin leads his group to the kitchens. First they search through the perishable items, discarding anything that has gone bad and carefully packaging the food that is still good, as per the instructions of the group's single cook. They use empty crates and barrels for flours, sugars, and other dry ingredients, trusting the sturdy wood to last longer than the burlap sacks that Men seem to favor. Finally, they gather as many nonperishables, or "trail food", as they can, promising to come back later and grab what they cannot carry. Already, they have spent several hours merely gathering the supplies into one large pile, and another is spent gathering ropes to transport the food to the rock wall.

Tyllor and Kodi have created a magnificent system using abandoned pulleys, carts, and steel cables. Used to the heavy loads of rock, the carts have no difficulty in hauling down the Dwarves' findings. Among the many knick knacks that everyone had gathered, Frerin sees an hourglass that must be turned once a day. _Thank goodness,_ he thinks. His inability to tell time had unnerved him.

Once everyone has gathered back into the mines, they sit around and look at their spoils. Frerin allows them to risk a fire using broken bits of wood from the crash; they will need to know sooner or later what will and will not attract the dragon. The cook does an excellent job of seasoning the freshly roasted meat, and the Dwarves chance a higher volume, feeling that the dragon likely will not hear them from this far away.

They have reached, for all intents and purposes, the end of the mines. Some of the shafts go deeper into the ground, and some turn and lead back to the entrance, but they are as far northeast as they can go. After a short conference, the four miners inform the rest that the distance to the surface is longer here than it is farther west, but that they will likely awaken the dragon if they try to move closer. The unanimous decision is to take the longer route in favor of bothering the beast.

From the very first day, a routine is set. Kodi, Pallik, Gheth, and Tyllor all work together to teach the group about digging; how to strike the rock properly, and how to keep from bringing the ceiling down on all their heads. It is slow going at first. The elders are not as sure-handed as they once were, and a few Dwarves have never held a tool in their lives. Frerin is a little better, having been trained by the Captain of the Guard in combat, but his pickaxe slips more often than it finds its mark.

Gaffun watches the two sick Dwarrows. The Dwarrowdam they had found in the Western Guardroom is steadily improving, though she has not woken yet. She has been given watery soup, though, and shows more signs of life every day.

The child, on the other hand, grows steadily worse. There are no nursing mothers amongst their group, and while Gaffun does what he can, the lack of usable milk in the mountain makes his task monumentally difficult. "No change" has become both good and bad news, and the group is tense, waiting for the day when Gaffun announces her death.

One morning, the Dwarrowdam wakes.

Frerin is trickling water into her mouth, and sees the lips move ever-so-slightly. He calls Gaffun over, and the healer checks for her pulse. Slowly she rises to consciousness, eyelids fluttering weakly and fingers twitching. She raises her head, and Gaffun holds a dipper full of water under her mouth, watching as she drinks greedily. Seeming a little more awake, she turns her head from side to side, taking in the basic cot they had brought down for her. She seems to be looking for something.

"K—Kun?" she asks raspily. Frerin's throat closes, imagining the body of the Dwarf they had found next to her, hidden just out of sight. "Where—where is he?"

Frerin looks at Gaffun, silently asking what he should say.  With heavy sorrow in his eyes, the healer nods, turning to fill a bowl with soup.

"What is your name?" Frerin asks, crouching next to her and taking her hand in his. "Vun," she replies, confusion crossing her features. _Her brother_ , Frerin thinks despairingly. "Kun is your brother?" She nods in verification.

"Vun...I'm afraid your brother didn't survive. I'm sorry." She stares at him for a while, eyebrows creased in a slight frown as she searches his face. Her head is shaking, minutely, an unconscious gesture of denial. _No,_ her mouth forms the word, but no sound comes out. Finally, she seems to come to a decision. She shakes her head firmly, eyes clearing; she does not believe him.

Frerin closes his eyes. "Can you stand?" he asks, helping her as she rises, though she pushes him away. Making sure she is following, he leads her around the corner, where Rudin and Kun's bodies rest on cots, awaiting burial.

Vun shrieks, a wordless cry that tears through Frerin's soul and leaves him breathless. She collapses next to Kun, sobbing hysterically as she clutches the limp body to him. "No, you can't do this, you can't do this to me," she repeats, over and over, the words blurring into her sobs. Once, she asks "why", and Frerin closes his eyes as tears slip down his cheeks. He cannot remain unaffected in the face of such open grief.

 There is no work that day. For a while the company simply sits there, tears streaming down their faces as they grieve for all those that died in the firestorm, and for the loved ones that they can only pray to Mahal had survived. It hits them full force, a pain that they had chosen to ignore until then.

Eventually, Vun sits up, eyes red as she strokes Kun's bearded cheek. "He was only sixty-nine," she chokes out, the first words to be spoken in several hours. "He was only sixty-nine, and I was supposed to..." she trails off, fresh sobs racking her body as she buries her face in a cold chest. They sit for a while longer, until Vun sits up and wipes her cheeks, sniffling. Then they move, gathering cloth and fine bolts of fabric, running to the Sorter's and Craftsman's Levels to find gold and gems that the dragon had not taken. The four miners dig furiously into the rock, creating two stone tombs. Anger drives them, and magnificent coffins with heavy slabs appear in the spaces in the wall, with runes to send the two Dwarves to Mahal's Halls carved into the sides. They are tombs fit for kings, despite the quick work; the company is not only burying Rudin and Kun. They are saying goodbye to everyone; to all the Dwarves that lie dead in the upper levels, to the piles of ash that were once mighty warriors and fine craftsmen. They are offering a prayer to their loved ones, in the event that they did not survive. Frerin thinks of his family, particularly his siblings. He can only pray that they are somehow still alive, but if they are not... _Mahal, take care of them, please. Wherever they are._

Someone begins the Dwarven Mourning Song, and soon the aching notes are carried into the air by deep voices. Frerin sings as well, taking the high harmony, as his voice has not yet changed. No one cares if the dragon wakes; they will send their dead off properly, or not at all.

* * *

"How is she?"

"I'm afraid that what we are waiting for has finally come to pass, Prince Frerin. She has mere hours left, at my guess." Gaffun looks down at the tiny bundle in his hand. Khala sleeps, more peacefully than any child her age, but Frerin would rather hear her scream. Her skin is pale and thin, and her eyelids are dark. Beneath the blanket she is wrapped in, she is far too thin. "Is there nothing more you can do?"

"Nothing that I haven't already done," Gaffun replies. It is a testament to his sorrow that he does not even sound offended by Frerin's implied meaning.

"Very well," Frerin says, turning away to see Vun's huddled form on her cot, with Gheth trying to comfort her. "I will ask Pallik to create a tomb."

The words bring tears to his eyes, but Frerin banishes them. Perhaps it is better that the babe does not grow up in this environment, with the constant fear of a dragon attack. But Frerin is selfish enough to wish that Khala would live anyway.

He walks away, stopping by Vun's cot. "Any change?" he asks quietly. Gheth is the only one that Vun will allow close to her, though the Dwarrowdam still refuses food. She has had not a third of the water that Gaffun says she needs, has not spoken, and Frerin doubts she has slept. One Dwarf always keeps a watch, and no one has reported seeing her close her eyes for more than a second.

"No. How is Khala?" the quiet miner replies.

Frerin gives a shake of his head. "Gaffun says she has less than a day to live." Gheth looks down, but he does not seems surprised. None of them are, but it does not make the parting any easier.

Frerin goes to examine their progress. They have been in the mines for a month, now, and have quite a bit to show for it. Kodi has worked almost nonstop, though Gaffun has demanded that he rest, and the rest of the company is quickly adapting to their work. Fjor seems to have new life in him, as if retirement had ill-suited him. Frerin would not doubt it; retirement suits very few Dwarves.

In addition to the tunnel that will eventually lead them outside, they have also created small nooks and crannies, little niches that they can sleep in. Mattresses have been dragged down from the best rooms to make the nights easier, and the Dwarves have also begun to take up hobbies. Carving tools and wood are meticulously stored on shelves in some of the "dens", while others display fabric, thread, and needles. Lira has resumed her wire-working, her hands twisting to form tiny shapes when they sit around the fire at night. Frerin learns from her, making very crude shapes, no matter how simple they are, and accepting Lira's light laugh and promise that he will get better with time.

He grabs a pickaxe, joining in the effort to widen the tunnel and give it support. Without complications, Pallik says that they may be able to get out within six months. Kodi believes that, at minimum, they will not be out for nine. Both Dwarrows seem confident that they will get out, though, and nine months really is not so long, when one takes into account the lifespan of Dwarves.

When they finally return, sweaty, dirty, tired, and ready to eat whatever it is that smells absolutely delicious, they are shocked to hear the tiniest of cries. Gaffun's face is a complete one-eighty from the morning; he is grinning from ear to ear and bouncing Khala, who makes that tiny noise again.

"What?" Rokil asks, completely dumbfounded. Frerin silently echoes the sentiment.

Gaffun shrugs. "I can't explain it, so I won't try. But a few hours ago, she woke up, and she's improved faster than I thought possible." The Dwarves immediately gather around, carefully passing the babe from one set of hands to the other. Frerin holds her for just long enough to see the rosy cheeks, healthy complexion, and bright eyes, before passing her off. Everyone rejoices in the miracle, their faces lighting up at the sight of the child.

Gheth takes Khala for a moment, smiling gently down at her. Tentatively, he holds the bundle out to Vun, who looks at it, then jerks her head up to Frerin. "This is Kari's child," she exclaims. Before Frerin can give an answer, Vun takes Khala, holding her with familiarity. She rock her gently back and forth, and the tiniest smile appears for a brief second on her whiskered face.

* * *

In the end, it takes a year and a half to finally reach the surface. They had run into a particularly difficult stretch of bedrock that broke all of their tools, until Frerin had pulled some ceremonial mithril swords from the royal quarters and started hacking at it in frustration. It had taken a long time to finally break through, but once they had, the rest of the way went quite smoothly.

When that first bit of natural light broke through the ever-present gloom, the entire company had rushed forward and pulled the rest of the earth away with their bare hands. For a long time, they stand on the rocky slopes of Erebor, taking in the grey snow clouds above them and just _breathing_. The cold, fresh air hurts their nostrils, but oh, how much better it is than the staleness of the mines. Frerin's lungs feel like they have only just begun to work properly again, and he stares out at the grey and white expanse, grinning hugely.

The sound of crunching snow turns his attention behind him. Kodi walks toward him, his dark beard fluttering in the wonderfully cold breeze.

"I told myself that if you could get us out, I would follow you." The Dwarf bows low, beard brushing the snowy ground. "Kodi, son of Kallin, ever at your service, My Prince."

Frerin claps the man on the shoulder as he rises. "Your duty, Master Kodi, is to be honest with me. Do not let my rank, or any respect you may have for me, keep you from telling the truth. I have come to depend on your devotion to facts; I hope that I can continue to do so." Kodi's lips quirk into an amused smirk.

"I've never had an issue with being honest before, Prince Frerin. I don't think I will have a problem with it now." Frerin chuckles, nearly choking when Kodi joins in - the first laugh Frerin has heard from the surly miner. Together they look out across the vast open lands, their hearts swelling with joy at finally being free.

The snow clouds drift gently eastward and leave behind a cold, clear sky. Despite the freezing temperatures, the company spends the night under the stars. If anyone had asked them a year and a half ago, they would have said that a night underground would always beat a night in the open, but now, after practically suffocating beneath the feet of a dragon, they do not want to spend another minute inside. So they drag their entire collection of furs and blankets, gathered over the past several months, out under the stars, light a merry fire on the slopes of Erebor, and snuggle close to one another. They speak in upbeat murmurs, hopeful to join their kin and put the mountain far behind them.

In the morning, they waste no time in gathering as many supplies as they can carry and trekking south toward the nearest settlement: Laketown. They skirt around the ruins of Dale, not wishing to see any more desolation. The way around the Long Lake is, unsurprisingly, long, but hope carries their feet faster, and they reach the town in a day and a half.

Frerin takes Kodi and Fjor with him, leaving the others to wait behind. He is not certain how the Men of the Lake will receive Dwarves, and does not wish to risk more lives than necessary.

A year and a half ago, Laketown had been a bountiful trading post full of color, laughter, and wealth. Now the mood of the town is grim and quiet. The painted wood, though still colorful, has begun to peel and fade, as if the inhabitants no longer touch it up. The wood, which must be treated every year with a special oil to avoid water damage, is chipped and cracked. The whole town looks as if it has been neglected for a long time, and Frerin would doubt that anyone still lives here, if he could not hear the muted sounds of people going about their daily lives.

There are two guards on the wooden bridge that leads to the town, and they cross their axes to bar the way. "Who are you and where do you come from?" one asks gruffly.

The three Dwarves halt suddenly, startled by the appearance of weapons. Calculating his options quickly, Frerin states that he and his fellow travelers are Dwarves from the Iron Hills, seeking news of their kin from Erebor.

"The Dwarves of Erebor?" the guard snorts derisively. "They're long gone, Master Goldenbraid. Surprised you haven't heard, about the dragon and all."

"Where have they gone?" Frerin asks, trying to keep irritation out of his voice. The guard shrugs.

"Here. There. Scattered like leaves in the wind they were, after Smaug came. Most went south, though from what I hear, some split off. You could probably spend ten years looking before you found them, maybe more." _Smaug - is that the dragon's name?_ Frerin wonders, nodding to the guard and returning with Kodi and Fjor to the others. The news they bear is grim; though the Dwarves of Erebor are alive (some of them, at least), finding them will be a monumental task. Winter will make it worse, and their relatively small group size does not give Frerin confidence that everyone will survive the journey.

"Goldenbraid?" Kodi asks, sitting on the log next to Frerin as the prince stares at the fire. He rouses from his thoughts, looking at the smirk on Kodi's face.

"What? I had to think of _some_ name, and 'Goldenbraid' just sort of slipped out." Frerin defends himself. It is a fairly ridiculous name, as far as they go, however suiting it may be. Grandfather had always said that he had hair like gold. "Anyways, it's not important now. We need to figure out what we're going to do."

Kodi nods, turning his attention to the flames. "We're not many, and few of us, if any, are warriors." Frerin hums in agreement. "Winter has barely hit, and once it does, some of us will be in danger from the cold."

"Food won't be a problem for a while," Fjor says, coming up on the other side of Frerin. "Though I'm sure everyone would like a little variety in their diet, no matter how amazing Bridi's cooking is. Eventually, though, we'll have to start hunting for our own meat, and that's going to be a challenge, as there are no archers among us, to the best of my knowledge."

"And no weapons," Frerin murmurs. At this point, they will need to return to the mountain, to get supplies, at the very least.

"Seems as if it would almost be easier to stay in Erebor," Frerin says absently, mind running through the challenges he is faced with. Even if they manage to carry everything they need, they have no idea which way to go, besides "south". But how far south? And how far can their elders, and Khala, go before the miles become too much?

"It...could be done," Kodi muses. Frerin blinks, trying to recall what had been said.

"What?"

"Living in the mountain. We already have the basics, and we can make what we need. There are weapons in Erebor, and cloth. It would take some learning, and we'd probably screw up spectacularly at first, but eventually we'd get the hang of it. So far, the dragon hasn't bothered us." Kodi meets Frerin's stunned gaze, shrugging.

"You can't expect them to want to live beneath Smaug's feet!" Fjor hisses lowly. "Mahal's great hammer, _I_ don't want to do that."

"What other choice do we have? Wander the wilds until our noses and toes freeze off in hope of stumbling across the last of our kin? Even if we managed to find them, are you sure they would welcome us?" Kodi retorts.

"We'll have to ask the others," Frerin states, settling the argument. Kodi glances sidelong at him.

"You're our leader now. The bloody King Under the Mountain, for all intents and purposes. It's your decision."

"My decision is based on the needs and desires of my people," Frerin replies. "They are not a bunch of empty-headed Elves, Kodi. They'll know a reasonable option when they see one. I'm not going to say we're staying in Erebor without at least partial consent."

The proposal does not go over well, but Gheth, Lira, and Vun all point out the benefits. "Are you really so ready to give up your home?" Lira asks softly.

A day and a half later, they find themselves once more on the slopes of Erebor, staring at the dark tunnel before them. Recognizing their need for a leader, Frerin walks in first.

* * *

 _Summer, 2773 T.A._ _The forge is finally finished, much to Darg's delight. Our hard-working miners have continued their work, finding precious stones and metals in the depths of Erebor. We have also gathered broken pieces of iron and steel, which we can melt down to create more tools and weapons._

Frerin dips the dusty quill into the equally dusty ink well, considering the events of the past eighteen months. They had resumed their lives in their tunnel, focusing their efforts on widening it and turning it into a home worthy of Dwarves. The forge is to satisfy the needs of their craftsman hearts, for the days in Erebor can become surprisingly dull without something to keep the hands busy.

Fjor has taken it upon himself to train their small population, using the weapons that lie scattered about Erebor's vast halls. Targets and dummies have been mounted on the northeast slopes of Erebor, and the Dwarves focus their practice on archery, which they will need once the food stores run out. Gaffun has kept busy, both in travelling south to find herbs and in healing the numerous injuries from weapons training. The Dwarf has taken on an apprentice; young Tarik has shown an interest in the healing arts.

Frerin smiles, setting his quill to the crackling paper once more.

_Autumn, 2801 T.A. After nearly three decades of courtship, Gheth and Vun came to me to perform the vows at their wedding ceremony. Ah, the dress we found for Vun was magnificent, especially after Grai used her embroidery skills on it. We managed to find diamonds and opals enough - the look on Gheth's face was priceless when Fjor walked Vun down our makeshift aisle. They are currently in the Cave of Love, on which Kodi worked hard to make the crystals shine bright again._

The Cave of Love is deep within the mountain, a sacred place for newlyweds to, ah, complete their nuptials. Frerin's hand rubs against his chin, brushing at the soft golden hair that had begun to sprout in his twentieth year. Khala is staying with Lira for the night, though she will move back in with her adoptive parents tomorrow. For now, though, they will give the new couple as much privacy as they can.

_Spring, 2803 T.A. Along with the birth of little Kun, Thak and Drayn have decided to marry. With both of their impressive tempers, I can only hope Thak will learn to keep his mouth shut. It is always best to let the woman win, as my father used to say._

The company has demonstrated fine archery skills, and will only improve, Frerin thinks. Though the bow and arrow are the tools of an Elven warrior, the Dwarves of Erebor must rely on their own skill now to find their food. Other weapon skills are still used of course, though it is unlikely that anything will try to attack them, but even the quietest Dwarf cannot hope to sneak up close enough to a deer to stab it with a sword.

Frerin has a steady grasp on wire-working, thanks to Lira's patient tutelage, and it satisfies him to no end to see the shapes in his mind come to life in silver and gold. It is somewhat ironic, Frerin thinks, that a mountain inhabited by a dragon still has most of its wealth below the treasury, waiting to be mined. The mere thought has caused many a good laugh in their company, that a greedy dragon cannot even sense the people living beneath its very feet.

_Summer, 2836 T.A. As the sixth Dwarf that we have laid to rest since we decided to live in the mountain, Fjor was, by far, the hardest to say goodbye to. I do not know what I would have done without his support and his guidance; without him, I am certain, I would have failed everyone._

Frerin cannot stop the tear before it lands on the parchment, blurring one of the words. He sets the quill down and puts his head in his hands, his breath coming shakily as he tries to hold back sobs. Fjor had been revived by their life in the depths of Erebor, as he had cast off retirement and accepted a position he should have never left; they had given him a warrior's funeral, for a warrior he was, to the end of his days.

The elders that had survived the fall of Erebor are now all gone. Kodi, at two hundred and thirty, is the oldest Dwarf amongst them, and despite their less-than-spectacular beginnings, Frerin does not want to see another most beloved friend leave.

 _Not for some time,_ he thinks, though where had the past thirty years gone?

 _Spring, 2875 T.A._ _After much work, we managed to repair the Dwarven windlance from Dale, and gifted it to the Men of Laketown. We hope that, one day, someone will finish the job that, supposedly, Lord Girion started. They have mounted it, though they seem somewhat confused as to its use. I know, however, that the heir of Girion has one last Black Arrow; may his or his descendants' aim be true._

_Khala, Kun, Thayn, Gilan, and Kora have all become fine young Dwarrows. I think, though I cannot be certain, that Khala and Thayn may have more of an interest in each other than friends, though only time will tell. Dwarves are, as we all know, incredibly secret about their affairs. Life beneath the mountain has not changed that._

"Prince Goldenbraid," Kodi rasps, eyeing Frerin from beneath bushy, grey-streaked eyebrows. The miner does not look all that old, but Tarik has informed him that he does not have long left.

Frerin leans forward, grasping Kodi's dry hand with both of his. "Why do you call me that, Kodi?"

"Because it is your name, My Prince. Chosen by you in a moment of need, as all names are, and I'm afraid you are quite stuck with it. You should have thought before you spoke, though few youth ever do." Kodi coughs drily before squeezing Frerin's hand affectionately. "Do not mourn an old Dwarf's passing. I have been amazed and impressed by life under your rule, but now it is time to see my beloved wife and daughter again."

"I may have to request that they let you stay but a few years longer," Frerin replies. Kodi chuckles.

"No, My Prince. Glad I am to have served you, but now it is someone else's turn. I have but one request."

"Anything, Kodi."

"I wish to be buried in the mines, please," Kodi says. "It is where I was born, and it is where I wish to remain." Frerin bows his head in acknowledgement, and does not release Kodi's hand until the sound of the Dwarf's breathing falls silent.

They gild the tomb with inlays of gold and silver, and imbed fine emeralds, rubies, and diamonds in the stone. Khala creates a carving that forever names Kodi _Melhekh-bâh_ , or 'King-friend'. As the Mourning Song rises to tickle the ears of a dragon, Frerin looks to the ceiling and wonders how many more deaths he must witness before he, too, is laid to rest.

_Autumn, 2917 T.A. When once we numbered twenty-two, now we are only fifteen. I do not know how long our tiny group can survive, for on a larger scale, the number of Dwarves has been declining for centuries. I do not know what we hope for, by staying here. Perhaps a miracle; that Smaug may one day be defeated, and that we can reclaim our homeland. I do not think that it will happen in my lifetime, and who will I leave behind? I have no desire to wed. When I die, the line of Durin will no longer endure._

_Yet there is always hope. There are many here that are worthy to take up the mantle of leadership. I have only ever served to see them safe; anything more than that is out of my hands. Mahal will do with us as he wishes. We are still alive, though. That makes me hope that He wants us to carry on._

* * *

_Durin's Day, 2941 T.A. It has been 171 years, and some months, since the fall of Erebor. I am 186, my beard reaches halfway to my abdomen and takes a great deal of brushing and braiding to manage, as the hairs are so fine. I wear light armor, furs, and robes that are fitting for the Dwarf Kings of Old; my clothes and hair are adorned with beads made out of tiny gems that sparkle in the firelight. A circlet made of gold wire occasionally rests upon my head, when the children wish to see it - it was a gift from Lira, Mahal rest her soul, and brings many memories. In short, we prosper as well as we did before the dragon came, though on a much smaller scale. Despite this—_

A rumble distracts Frerin from his writing, and he looks upward, startled. The ceiling releases small particles of stone, which fall on his head and desk softly. Another rumble comes, and the mountain shakes as it has not in one hundred and seventy-one years.

Frerin jumps up from his chair and bolts into the common hallway, which was once the original tunnel out of Erebor. Dwarves have paused in their work; they look up from various tasks at the shaking. Most of them have never felt it before; born, as they were, beneath the mountain after the coming of Smaug. Tyllor looks at Frerin, though, and there is fear in his eyes.

"What is it?" Kora asks.

"That...is a dragon."

Gheth's words are quiet and grim. The young Dwarves stare at him as he appears from out of his and Vun's den, their eyes wide and expressions frightened.

Frerin does a head count, running into dens and checking beneath blankets. There are only ten, including him...ah, but Khala had left early that morning to buy flour from Laketown.

"Where are Vori and Flori?" Frerin asks. Thayn pales. "They said they wanted to go upstairs and explore Erebor. I told them no, but they may not have listened!"

"Shit," Frerin curses, hand reaching for something to stabilize him as a shudder rocks the mountain. They are safe here from falling rocks, given the distance between them and the treasury, but the rock wall will be too dangerous to try and climb. He lunges forward, grabbing Thayn's shoulder as the Dwarf makes for the rock wall.

"No, Thayn, we must wait it out," Frerin urges.

"With all due respect, _Your Highness_ ," Thayn grits out, "those are my children up there, and I will not leave them to die."

"With all due respect, Master Thayn, it is far more likely that you will die trying to find them. They could be anywhere, and running around while the ceiling falls on our heads will not help them," Frerin retorts. Gilan steps forward and grasps his brother by the other shoulder, effectively keeping the distraught father from going anywhere.

"I'm sure they'll be fine, Thayn," he says.

The mountain shakes and rumbles for the better part of an hour, and the Dwarves stare at the ceiling fearfully. Eventually, the tremors subside, and the company straightens.

"Right," Frerin says. "Tyllor, Thayn, Gilan, Kun, Kora, and Tarik, with me. The rest of you, stay here and wait until we say you can come. If Khala comes back before we're gone, you can send her up too. We're going to find Vori and Flori, and hopefully figure out what in Durin's name is going on."

The selected Dwarrows quickly assemble weapons and don on medium armor, not too heavy and not to weak. Frerin quickly straps on his vambraces, puts his fur-lined robe on, and attaches his bow and quiver to his back for easy access. Seven sets of feet move quickly along the tunnel, making barely a sound. Soon the rock wall rises above them, ropes hanging down from far above and foot- and handholds carved into the rock and rising out of sight. The Dwarves make quick work of the rock face, each having decades of experience climbing it.

They begin on the ground level. Despite the shaking, most of the debris that decorates the floor is nearly two centuries old. They skirt the level, steering clear of the treasury and the front of Erebor. Next they check the second level, hoping that the two rascals went rifling through the kitchens and residences.

"Prince Frerin," Kun says, swiping his robes out of the way as he kneels down. His hands hover over a spot on the floor, and the others crowd around to look.

The dust is scuffled and uneven, as if a troop of Dwarves had run through it. Clear footprints are hard to find, though the few that are there seem to point towards the center of the mountain. They follow them cautiously, concern growing as the marks lead them down and near to the treasury.

 _They are too small for a dragon,_ Frerin thinks. _But too big and too many for Vori and Flori alone. So what, or_ who _, came here? And how did they get in?_ The questions gnaw at his mind, for whoever came must be either mad, or a friend of Smaug; neither option is preferable.

Frerin looks up from the tracks when Kun stops in front of him. A few feet ahead of them, the columns that surround the great treasury stand dark and imposing. A faint gleam comes from within, a golden glow that can only come from the mountain of treasure within. Frerin presses a hand to Kun's forearm and steps in front of the Dwarf, walking slowly towards the treasury.

As he stands next to one of the great pillars, he cannot contain the quiet gasp that leaves his lips. He is staring down at an ocean of gold, more than he has ever seen before. More, even, than he remembers there being in the treasury before the coming of Smaug. It forms hollows and hills, like the waves of the sea, frozen and golden. The stone ground, steps, and platforms are half-buried beneath the glittering treasure.

Frerin's attention is drawn by movement on the golden plain. Tiny dark figures move among the gold, staggering as their feet sink into the coins and speaking with voices that are muffled by the time they reach Frerin's ears.

"Who are they?" Gilan asks.

"Dwarves," Tyllor replies breathlessly.

"Dwarves? How did they get in here?" Kora asks, startled. The others hiss at her to lower her voice.

"I don't know," Frerin murmurs. "We'll have to ask them." He signals for Gilan, Thayn, and Kora to take up positions behind the columns to their left, and for Kun, Tyllor, and Tarik to do the same on their right. They quietly disappear behind the pillars, bows drawn and arrows nocked in the event of trouble. Then Frerin straightens himself and adjusts his robes, making himself look every inch the prince he is, before stepping onto the gold.

It clinks and jingles beneath his feet, somewhat ruining his preference for silence, but the noise from the Dwarves below is too loud to hear him yet. He continues walking, attempting to maintain his balance on the treacherous surface. His eyes dart from one Dwarf to the next, taking in their somewhat ridiculous outfits - very fine, expensive robes are dyed in rich, bright reds, blues, and purples; certainly not a very practical use of coin. They bear a variety of weapons, strange even for Dwarves. He counts eleven altogether, though there could be others elsewhere in the mountain. None of them carry a bow on their back, however, which gives Frerin and his people the advantage.

When he is close enough, he spreads his hands out, palms up, in an open gesture. Steadying his feet, he continues walking toward them, speaking in an authoritative tone.

"Who are you, to come so boldly into the heart of Erebor and dig through her treasure by no one's leave but your own?"

The Dwarves whip around, most of them drawing massive swords, though Frerin can tell, even from this distance, that they are Man-made. One steps forward, a dark-haired Dwarf whose clothes are much rougher and more plain than the others' around him (or her; Frerin cannot tell from this distance, though the beard is short). When the Dwarf speaks, his low voice rivals Frerin's in authority.

"I believe it is you who should tell us who you are, for you have far less claim to this gold than we do."

Frerin raises an eyebrow. "I asked first, Master Dwarf. And I think you will find that none but the line of Durin has any claim to this mountain, or the treasure within." He does not state his name, not immediately, for there could be great danger from these Dwarrows upon hearing that a Prince of Durin still resides in Erebor. "And think twice before you claim to be of Durin's line, for I doubt any such noble would lower himself to bearing weapons made by Men." Frerin signals, and he does not need to look to know that six Dwarves stand by the pillars, their bowstrings tight as they take aim at the intruders.

"Need drove us to claim these weapons," the dark-haired Dwarf replies. He jumps down from the stone platform he was standing on, striding toward Frerin, who puts a hand on the hilt of his sword in warning. "And you have no claim to this mountain, as you are no heir of Durin. So I ask, one more time: who. Are. You."

Frerin studies the Dwarf's features: a strong nose, short-cropped beard (for shame), and blue eyes that seem, for the briefest of seconds, familiar. Yet there is something in them, something dark and jealous - possessive - and Frerin's nostrils flare in wariness. He speaks quietly, so that only the dark-haired Dwarf can hear. "I have six Dwarrows currently aiming arrows straight at your head. Their skills rival that of the Elves. So, Master Dwarf, _I_ will only ask once more: who are you, and how did you get into the mountain?"

The Dwarf takes a step back, eyes flicking over Frerin's shoulder, where he is certain that the outlines of six archers are just visible. Yet this Dwarf stands straight, his whole body practically glowing with regality. When he speaks, his voice booms across the room.

"I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, heir to the throne of Durin and King Under the Mountain."

And suddenly Frerin sees it. Though the face is weathered and worn by one hundred and seventy-one years, and the shoulders weighed down by the demands of his people, the eyes...the eyes are Thorin's. The nose is Thorin's. As certain as Frerin's hair is golden, his dark-haired older brother stands before him, looking at him with no recognition, and a great deal of mistrust, in his expression.

"At ease," Frerin rasps out, clearing his throat and repeating the order so that his Dwarves may hear and lower their weapons.

"Now," Thorin rumbles, hard eyes boring a hole through Frerin. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"I am Frerin," he begins weakly, forcing his voice louder and hoping - _praying_ \- that Thorin will recognize him. "Frerin Goldenbraid, son of Thrain, son of Thror, second heir of Durin, brother to Thorin II, who calls himself Oakenshield, Prince Under the Mountain. And I have lived here for the past one hundred and seventy-one years."

Thorin stares at Frerin for an eternity, his expression unreadable. Then, the tiniest flicker in his eyes, a brightness that had not been there before.

"It cannot be..." Thorin whispers, hope and longing and heartache and desperate _hope_ flooding through his voice.

"It is," Frerin says simply.

Thorin reaches hesitantly towards him, as if afraid he is a ghost. A strong hand, aged and calloused, touches his forearm. Frerin suddenly finds himself being squeezed to within an inch of his life, vice-like arms wrapped tightly around him. He reaches around his brother's bulk and squeezes back, burying his face in the crook of Thorin's neck. Tears escape before he realizes they are there, but he does not care. After decades, nearly two centuries of _wondering_ if Thorin was alive, he holds the evidence in his arms.

Though Frerin does not want the embrace to end, eventually the two pull apart. Thorin is smiling widely, a sight that Frerin has not seen in a while; even before Smaug, Thorin had always been a bit grim.

"Time has changed you, brother," Frerin says, a hand falling against Thorin's cheek and feeling the grin beneath his palm.

"As it has you, though I think it likes you more," Thorin replies, and the two laugh.

A jingling distracts Frerin and reminds him that there are others in the room. The rest of Thorin's group have climbed down from their perch, and are waiting. One steps up to the right of Thorin, with another behind him.

"Bless my beard, laddie. It really is you," the Dwarf says, his eyes slightly damp. Despite the white beard, the face is far too familiar to forget.

"Balin! You escaped as well?" Balin nods, grinning, and the Dwarf behind him comes closer. He is tall and intimidating, with a bald head, bristly beard, and grey eyes.

"You will only remember him as a wee babe, but this here is my brother Dwalin," Balin says. The fierce warrior bows, and Frerin's eyes widen.

"Dwalin? Little Dwalin? Mahal's beard, you have grown!" Thorin and Balin laugh, though Dwalin only raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

The others step forward: Gloin and Oin, sons of Groin, do you remember him? Grumpy man. This here is Dori, Nori, and Ori, from Ered Luin, and Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur, also from Ered Luin. And - Durin's arse, where are Fili and Kili?

Frerin motions his own group down, introducing the six Dwarrows. Tyllor and Tarik have been with me from the beginning, you see; Gilan and Thayn were born here, under the mountain, as were Kun and Kora. We came up here looking for—

"THORIN!" a shout comes from around a corner, and two figures come barreling around it, their hair flying out behind them. "Thorin, Thorin, you'll _never_ believe what we found! Mister Boggins is with them now!" The speaker is a dark brunette Dwarf with stubble instead of a proper beard and excited brown eyes. His companion has clear blue eyes, the same color as Thorin's, and gleaming blond hair, the same color as Frerin's. He is slightly calmer than the other Dwarf, but there is still urgency in his posture.

"Ah, Fili, Kili, come and meet your uncle. Frerin, this is Fili," he gestures to the blond, "and Kili: your nephews."

Fili and Kili stare at Frerin, dumbstruck, and Frerin does the same, though for a different reason. "Just one question, brother mine: how in Mahal's name did you find a woman that would take you?"

Fili and Kili start sniggering, and the next thing Frerin knows, they are bent over with laughter. Balin, and even Dwalin, seem to find the question amusing. In fact, the only one not even smiling is Thorin.

"Fili and Kili are Dis' sons," Thorin clarifies. Frerin blinks - the idea of little baby Dis having children is a bit much to take in. But then Frerin catches on to what Thorin did _not_ say.

"So you never did find a woman that would take you?" Fili and Kili howl with laughter, and a rumbling chuckle emits from stone-faced Dwalin. Thorin looks disgruntled and opens his mouth to speak when a new, higher voice speaks.

"Fili! Kili! Did you actually do what I asked?"

Frerin turns to see...well, he is not exactly sure what it is. It has large, hairy feet, and curly hair on its head (though no beard). The trousers cut off at mid-calf - very impractical - and a button nose twitches irritably. _Like a rabbit,_ Frerin thinks.

Fili and Kili get up, looking abashed. "Sorry Mr. Boggins," Kili murmurs. "But Uncle Thorin distracted us - look! We have another uncle!" Mr. Boggins turns to look at Frerin, appearing appropriately flabbergasted at the sight of more Dwarves. Frerin's attention, however, is drawn downward, where two half-sized _miscreants_ hide behind the strange creature's legs.

"Vori! Flori! Come here this instant!" Thayn orders, and the two Dwarflings edge toward their father. Thayn grasps both of them by their collars. "What were you two _thinking_? I told you NOT to go upstairs, and what do you do? You decide to parade around the mountain as if there isn't a bloody dragon sleeping above all our heads! You could have died, for Mahal's sake! Do you know what that would do to your poor mother? Do you know what she's going to do to you when we get home?"

Both children cringe appropriately at the thought of their mother's wrath; Khala is a frightening Dwarrowdam.

"Dish duty for six months!" Flori opens his mouth to argue, but Thayn beats him to it. "Ah! Don't argue or it'll be a year. And be lucky you are still alive to _do_ the dishes."

"Your father is right, dear ones," Frerin says, crouching down. Thayn releases their collars, and Vori and Flori run to the prince, hugging him. "While we sometimes travel to the upper levels of Erebor to get what we need, you must remember that it is not a place to play. It is very dangerous, especially without supervision. But you know that now, don't you?" Both Dwarflings nods their heads frantically.

"It was scary," Flori says.

"I know. You must realize that we make rules to protect you. Now go to your father." He gently pushes them towards Thayn and rises, ignoring the stiffness in his joints that never used to be there.

"Thank you, Master..."

"Boggins," Kili supplies.

" _Baggins_ ," the creature hisses. "Bilbo Baggins, at your service," it says then, bowing low before straightening again.

"Frerin, son of Thrain, at yours, Master Baggins," Frerin replies, dipping his head. "Though, if I may ask, what manner of creature are you? I do not believe I have seen your kind before."

"That would not surprise me in the slightest, Master Frerin." Master Baggins replies. "My kind do not like to venture far from their homes. I am a Hobbit of the Shire, sometimes called a Halfling, though I'll warn you that that is an extremely insulting name."

"A Hobbit it is, then. And what an honor to meet one of your kind, for I have only read about you. Though if your people do not like to leave their homes, I wonder what brings _you_ so far East. The Shire is, to the best of my knowledge, quite far from here."

"That is a very long tale, Master Frerin, and one that, I am afraid, is only the end of an even longer one. I am curious, as well, to know where you have come from, for I seem to have missed something."

"It is a night for tales, as we all have questions that ought to be answered," Thorin says. "Perhaps we should return to our small campsite."

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, perhaps it would be better if we returned to _our_ home." Tyllor says. "For there are more of us, and I am sure they would love to hear the story as much as we would."

The company of Thorin Oakenshield looks surprised at the mention of others, but agrees to follow Frerin's group. They travel to the rock wall, letting Kun go first, and Thayn and his children following. Then Thorin's company goes down, hesitantly and much slower than Frerin's people, though that is to be expected. Finally, Frerin follows the rest of his Dwarves down the face, his mind whirling as his hands and feet automatically find the familiar purchases in the stone.

He takes the lead once they reach the bottom, grabbing the torch that Kun hands him. Vori, Flori, and Thayn have already disappeared, the children likely eager to inform the rest of their group about the new arrivals.

Frerin can hear the Company of Thorin Oakenshield whispering and muttering among themselves, and he imagines that their eyes are taking in the smooth walls, intricate carvings, and evidence of frequent use. He can understand their unspoken awe; even after all this time, he is still amazed by his people's ability to adapt to life under the mountain.

Soon they near the entrance to their living area: a circular chamber that the main tunnel runs through, where their dwellings and workshops are carved into the walls. The entrance to the outside lies about a hundred feet away, blocked by a boulder for now due to the chill of winter.

As soon as Frerin walks into the space, Vun slowly rises. "Prince Frerin," she greets, looking confused and a little harried. "You must put these children to rest - they are insisting that there are other Dwarves in the Mountain! And you," she adds, turning around to glare at Thayn, "have not said a word to calm them!"

Thayn only smirks, leaning against his den opening with his arms crossed. Frerin grins too, causing looks of slight alarm to cross the remaining Dwarves' faces.

"May I introduce to you," he says, gesturing grandly as he steps aside, "the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain!"

Thorin steps through, his head held high in that familiar regal bearing of his. Frerin had forgotten how effortlessly Thorin manages to make himself look a king; it was something that he had always envied.

Eyes widen as twelve unfamiliar Dwarves and a Hobbit file in behind Thorin. Each side stares, taking in the others' appearances - the differences in clothing, skin color (for life beneath the mountain had made Frerin's people fairly pale), and adornments. Though Thorin's company is dressed well, the garments do not appear Dwarven, and they lack the bejeweled decorations that Frerin's own group wear in their clothes and hair.

Thorin's company also looks tired, and several of them are thin (for Dwarves), as if food has been scarce. Though Frerin's own people must travel far to find decent food, they have never had a problem; in fact, the sight of a thin Dwarf is altogether shocking.

No one speaks for a long time. Gheth, Vun, and Falrin look the most distraught; of course, they would remember Thorin, son of Thrain, from before Smaug's coming. Finally, Gheth rises.

"Gheth, at your service, Your Majesty."

Vun and Falrin copy Gheth, standing to bow low to their king. "Khala is not here," Frerin says quickly, "though she'll probably be back in a few days."

Thorin's company introduces itself, each family group introducing and bowing together. Kili and Fili are brought forward as heirs of Durin, though they look uncomfortable with the attention.

They are not the only ones. The whole atmosphere is thick with tension and anticipation, wariness and uncertainty emanating from both sides. Frerin notices Master Baggins watch, unnoticed, from beside a wall, his oddly-colored eyes taking in the scene, but not interfering.

"Falrin!" Frerin calls cheerfully, hoping to settle the explosive Dwarven nerves around him. "What did dear Khala leave for us to cook? Surely our guests would love something other than dried meat and cram!"

Of course, Thorin's Company perks up at the mention of hot food. Falrin quickly disappears into the pantry, rolling out a barrel of salted pork from a boar they had managed to pin down in late summer. Frerin directs Kun and Gilan to find two barrels of mead, and orders Vori and Flori to retrieve enough mugs for everyone. The two dwarflings vanish down the corridor, chattering excitedly in a language only they understand.

Bombur, the only Dwarf in Thorin's group that is properly rotund, follows Falrin as he moves to the kitchen (which has two ovens that connect to a flue leading to the outside of the mountain). Frerin sends Kora to find more firewood for the center of their living area, and he directs everyone else to root through the dens and find chairs and furs.

The result is a large circle of Dwarves (and a Hobbit), each with a mug of mead and a merrily crackling fire in the center. Delicious smells waft from the kitchen, and the hatted toymaker, Bofur, has engaged Vori and Flori to keep them from bothering the chefs. Quiet, nervous chatter occurs between the two groups, each side testing the waters. Frerin hears Balin mention Vun's brother to her; apparently Kun the first had been training to be in the guard before the dragon attacked.

Very soon, wooden plates and knives made of silver are passed around. Bombur and Falrin come to the fire bearing a large wooden board laden with seasoned, mouth-watering meat. Once everyone is served, the stories begin.

Frerin speaks first, aided by Gheth and Tyllor. They speak of trying to find an escape, of fleeing the dragon, of despair and hopelessness, and of deciding to carry on (at this point in the tale, Tyllor and Gheth heap enough praise of Frerin's leadership to make the golden-haired prince turn quite red). They describe digging their way out of the mountain, of learning the extent of Smaug's destruction, and deciding, in the end, to return. They speak of miracle births and sorrowful deaths, and Frerin thinks that it is quite a long and incredible tale, judging by the Company's wide-eyed expressions.

Then comes the other half of the tale. Thorin and Balin recite the woes of the Dwarves, the wandering in the wilderness, the lack of help from Elfkind, the Battle of Azanulbizar and of settling in the Blue Mountains. Frerin thinks that, for all the difficulties of living beneath the feet of a fire-breathing dragon, his people suffered less than Thorin's did.

Then they speak of the quest: of a madman Wizard's idea to reclaim the Arkenstone and defeat a dragon. Of trolls and Elves and Orcs and Wargs, of skinchangers and nasty trees and spiders and _more Elves_ ; of Men and fish and a hidden door - and a dragon.

"You mean to tell me," Thayn says, his face pale and voice shaking slightly, "that a dragon is attacking Laketown, right now, as we speak?"

The Dwarves look slightly guilty, though the Hobbit, who has eaten at least as much as everyone else, looks even worse. "It's my fault," Baggins says. "I told Smaug that I was a 'barrel-rider'. He guessed it from that."

Thayn looks to Frerin. "Khala," he says urgently. "We have to get her." The Dwarf jumps up, nearly knocking over his mug. "Thayn!" Frerin says, leaping to his feet and grasping Thayn's sleeve. Thayn struggles against him. "Thayn, listen! Khala left this morning - there's no way she could have reached Laketown by now, even if she didn't stop! THAYN!" Frerin's voice deepens as he uses his "prince voice". Thayn stops struggling and looks at him, fear in his eyes.

"Your wife will be fine. She knows how to take care of herself. Think of your children." He says the last part quietly, trying to avoid to notice of young, impressionable ears. Thayn visibly deflates, nodding, but his eyes still blaze.

"If she's not back by tomorrow evening, we look for her." He says. Frerin nods in agreement.

"Alright," he says, looking at everyone. "You're all no doubt tired. We've got plenty of blankets and furs, so you might as well stay down here. We'll have some breakfast in the morning and then we can all head up, yes?"

Thorin's men look to their king, and Frerin mentally berates himself for not asking his brother. He has become quite used to leading others.

Thorin pauses, something dark flitting through his eyes, before he meets Frerin's gaze and nods. After a little more shuffling and coordination, twenty-six bodies lay out on the sandy floor, dreaming of another's life.

The morning yields a brief moment of confusion before giving way to hurried excitement. Breakfast is a quick meal of jerky washed away with mead before the Dwarves eagerly clamber up the rock wall. They are hauling provisions for several days, including a barrel of jerky split into portions, several flasks of water, and surplus blankets and furs that will protect them against the hard stone floor. Thayn leaves a note behind telling Khala where they are, but says nothing of their guests - there is a boyish excitement in his eyes at the thought of seeing her face.

If anyone ever asked Frerin, he could only tell them that the day had passed in a blur of gold. They spend their time in the treasury - of course they do! They have not seen this much gold for nearly two centuries. They make a half-hearted attempt at looking for the Arkenstone, and a few Dwarves mention in passing that they really should reinforce the gate, but the focus is on the gleaming metal beneath their feet. Frerin can see a thousand different items with a thousand different stories behind them, many of which he remembers.

The treasure is the legacy of his people, the lasting force that survived even when its makers had scattered to all corners of the world. He runs his fingers through it, feeling nostalgia rise over him - oh, how he wishes his grandfather could see this! If only he had not perished so many decades ago, and with such violence. Thror had deserved to see his kingdom restored.

Frerin would quite have forgotten the passage of time if not for the sound of frantic footsteps coming from one of the upper hallways. Khala appears, soot smeared across her face and her beard singed; her eyes are wild and her hair flies messily about her head.

"Khala! What is it?" Thayn asks, rising from his place next to Vori and Flori's gold fort and striding quickly towards her. Khala slides down the hills of gold, exhaustion in every inch of her features.

"The dragon," she gasps. "The dragon attacked Laketown. He burned it. Every house is on fire, a quarter of the population is dead, and more are injured..." she collapses, Thayn's arms the only thing keeping her off the ground. He lowers her gently to the ground. "So much death...so much suffering..." she murmurs, eyes wide with shock.

Frerin sees blood mixed with the ash and burnt cloth. "Tarik," he orders. The healer appears at his side, and after a quick examination, informs them that Khala is not injured, but she is in shock.

Frerin can easily imagine what she had seen. Khala was too young to remember the coming of Smaug, and life beneath the mountain had been relatively peaceful. The only gore she had ever been exposed to was in stories.

Oin then steps near them, crouching to give his own analysis. Khala flinches away, looking at him in surprise. "They said...they said that Dwarves had done this...that they had unleashed the dragon..." she whispers faintly. Thayn gently informs her of the events that she missed, rocking her gently as Bofur distracts their children. Once the tale is done, Khala shudders.

"They think you are dead. They are marching, now, gathering their army. The Elves are helping them. They want the gold in the mountain, some sort of recompense after what Smaug did."

"They'll have to get past the dragon first." Dwalin says grimly. "I'm surprised he left anyone alive, or that he isn't back yet. What's keeping him?"

Khala's eyelashes flutter as she turns her head to stare at Dwalin. "The dragon is dead. The heir of Girion's aim was true."

Utter silence fills the vast chamber. Even Vori and Flori have fallen silent, staring at Bofur as the toymaker whips his head around.

"Are you sure?" Thorin asks, his voice low and fervent as he stares intensely at Khala.

She nods. "Saw it myself. Was a few hundred feet away from Laketown when he came. The wyrm is in the Lake, now. He can't hurt anyone else." Khala's eyes close then, and Thayn shifts nervously.

"She's fine, Thayn. Just tired. We should let her sleep." They move her to a pile of blankets, letting Thayn stay next to her as everyone else convenes in the treasury. Thorin looks around at the gathered Dwarrows.

"If armies are coming," he says darkly, "we must prepare ourselves for battle."

* * *

 "I will have _war_ ," Thorin growls, the rich fur on his (Thror's) robe ruffling gently in the icy breeze. The King Under the Mountain swirls around and storms back into the newly-refortified mountain, a thundercloud on his face. Frerin follows behind, reminding himself that his brother has had a lot more problems with Elves in the past one hundred and seventy-one years than he has.

A small part of Frerin wants to give the Men some gold, but it is not his to mete out. And _what_ were the Men thinking, bringing an army? And inviting the _Elves_? Surely the animosity between Dwarves and Elves is infamous - why would they seek to antagonize Thorin?

"Fili, Kili, get back to the treasury. Find that stone! Dwalin, Kun, Tyllor, Thayn, Bofur, Bifur, check the gate, make sure it cannot be breached." Thorin orders. Frerin nods to his men as they look to him for approval. He follows Thorin at a swift pace, his hands clasped behind his back and his head raised. After so many years of peace, they need a warrior to lead them. They look to Frerin, though, and he intends to pass on that loyalty to Thorin, so that his brother may have all the support he needs.

Dwarves are split between the treasury and the gates. Some are checking other defenses, ensuring that Smaug's most recent rampage did not open any new entrances into the mountain. Thorin has already sent for Dain from the Iron Hills, and the Ironfoots should be here within the week. Once they are, the Men and Elves will regret not agreeing to Thorin's terms for negotiation.

Frerin takes a quick break, going to the treasury to sift among the baubles and decorations. He smiles gently - so many memories preserved in the gold. It would not be a mere pity if they gave anything up, but an outrage, for what claim do the Men have? And the Elves? This is Dwarf gold, and now it holds the lives and legacies of the thousands of dead left behind.

"Frerin!" Thorin's voice cuts through his thoughts, insistent.

"Hmm?"

"Frerin, we must—Frerin, look at me, I must speak with you," Thorin's voice is annoyed, and Frerin turns around, rolling his eyes as his fingers absentmindedly caress a jewel-encrusted goblet.

"Yes?" He asks irritably. Thorin only stands there, an unreadable expression freezing his features. For the first time in a week, he does not look angry or intense. In fact, Frerin would almost say he looks...concerned. _Trick of the light_ , Frerin thinks, waiting for Thorin to say something.

He is not, however, speaking, and Frerin huffs, turning back to the goblet. "You cannot tell me to look at you and then not talk. Is there something you wanted?"

"Frerin," Thorin says, his voice sounding strange. "Frerin, please look at me. Please look away..."

"Getting mixed messages here, Thorin. Do you want me to look at you or away from you?"

"Look away from the gold. Please, Frerin, please listen to me."

Frerin sighs and turns back to Thorin. His brother looks horrified, but Frerin does not know why. "What is it, Thorin?" He questions, exasperated.

"You look like grandfather..." Thorin whispers, eyes wide in fear.

"I don't look a thing like him, and you know it," Frerin retorts, becoming even more confused.

"Your eyes...they're just like his were when—" Thorin cuts off abruptly, running his hand through his mane and shaking is vigorously: an old nervous habit. He looks very agitated. "Frerin, I never...I tried to keep it from you, from all of you. Father knew, though I think he just passed it off. Grandfather was...he was sick, Frerin. In the last few years before Smaug came, and even after that, he...we call it gold-sickness, or dragon-sickness. He barely ate, almost never slept. Every minute he could he was in this treasury, counting gold, staring at it, _petting_ it. It was like if he closed his eyes, or took his hands away, it would disappear. And he had this look, this gleam in his eye - it was the scariest thing I've ever seen, Frerin. And now you look like that."

Beseeching blue eyes turn to Frerin, silently pleading. Frerin snorts. "Come on, Thorin, really? You think that _I'm_ 'gold-sick' because Grandpa liked shiny stuff? I'm nothing like him!"

"It runs in the family, Frerin! I swore I would never fall to it! But you - you never knew, didn't know to watch out for it, and now...you can barely keep your eyes off it!"

"Oh, come off it, Thorin. You don't think we haven't all been a little crazy for the stuff? It's not like we've seen a lot of it recently!

"This place has a ton of memories, Thorin. Like this," he pulls out a golden ceremonial sword with a jewel-encrusted handle. The blade is slightly dented. "Do you remember when Dis was born, and this was used on her name day? We tried sword-fighting with it?" Thorin smiles slightly at the memory, but it does not reach his eyes. Frerin sighs. "Look, even you've been a little possessive. Which is completely normal - we are Dwarrows, after all."

"I have not."

"Please. You've been staring at it, same as us, though you've been set for the Arkenstone. And telling the Men that you'd rather go to war when it is, sort of, your fault that Laketown is destroyed?" Thorin bristles, and Frerin puts his hands in the air. "Hey, I'm not saying they've been particularly smart about the whole thing. But don't blame me for being handsy with the gold when you're doing the same thing."

Thorin shakes his head. "It isn't true."

"Oh, and by the way, I found the Arkenstone a while ago." Thorin's head snaps up, and Frerin clearly sees the gleam in his eyes. It unnerves him, slightly, but he does not move.

"Where is it?" Thorin asks, his voice dangerously low. Frerin says nothing. "Frerin," Thorin warns, moving closer.

"Durin's beard, Thorin, look at yourself. It's just a fucking rock, and you look about ready to kill me for it." Frerin turns his head to the side, trailing his hands through the coins. He chuckles. "Maybe _you're_ the one who's gold-sick."

"It cannot be..." Thorin's whisper cuts through Frerin's focus. It is horrified and fervent, and his face is full of fear and heart-breaking pain. Frerin stares at his brother, surprised by the seriousness in Thorin's expression. Perhaps this "gold-sickness" is a real thing?

Thorin stares down at his hands as if they have turned into Elves, then turns and flees, flinging the crown off as he disappears down a hallway. Startled, Frerin calls after him, rising and grumbling to himself when Thorin does not respond. He waves off Balin and follows Thorin, taking twists and turns and backtracking several times until he finds his brother in a dusty chamber.

"Thorin?"

Thorin looks up from the hands that he used to bury his face. He is shaking all over, his breath coming in hysterical gasps. "Hey, easy," Frerin says, crouching down next to him. "What in Mahal's name is wrong with you?"

"I swore...Frerin, I swore I would not fall to it. Especially after..." Thorin chokes, and Frerin is alarmed to see tears threatening to fall. Thorin sits for several moments, mastering his breath. Finally, he rests his elbows on his knees and looks straight ahead, speaking in a low voice that threatens to break with each syllable.

"When Smaug came, I tried to go back. I knew...I knew you'd be in the Craftsman's Hall, and I thought, maybe, if I could get there in time...I could save you. I meant to, Frerin," he says desperately, looking at the prince. "I meant to find you. I never meant to leave you in there, in _here_ , to die. But...

"I thought he'd left," Thorin whispers. "I thought that Thror had already gotten outside. But he hadn't. He wouldn't leave the treasury. I found him there, trying to get the Arkenstone - there was a live dragon in there, swirling everything around in a storm. And I knew...I knew that I couldn't leave the Dwarves of Erebor without their King. Mahal, Frerin, I wish I hadn't known it. I would have rather died trying to find you than leave you alone, but...he wouldn't _fucking leave_. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Frerin sits for a while, thinking about everything that Thorin has said. It occurs to him that his brother had, for the past one hundred and seventy-one years, blamed himself for Frerin's "death".

"So, gold-sickness, huh?" Frerin asks. Thorin, who had put his head between his knees and his chest again, nods.

"I knew a man, a great miner, whose daughter died because he couldn't pay for the herbs she needed." Frerin says quietly. "He said that it was Gran—King Thror's fault. Tyllor became a miner before he was of age so that he and his mother wouldn't starve to death. Is it true that Thror could have given them more?"

"Without doubt." Thorin replies tightly. "I did what I could to help. I left baskets of food, pouches filled with coins, wherever I could. But I couldn't help everyone, no matter how hard I tried." He bows his head. "In the end, it didn't matter. They all died anyway."

"Not everyone," Frerin says, thinking of his small band of twenty-two, of the remaining thirteen. "And he - the miner with the daughter, that is - became my closest advisor and most honest friend, to the day he died. His tomb names him _Melhekh-bâh_."

Thorin looks up, startled. Frerin shrugs. "We did not know who had survived. I have been the King Under the Mountain for many years now, as the only living heir of Durin. I cannot say I am sorry to pass the title on to you."

Thorin lets out a chuckle and rises, picking up the cloak from where he had thrown it on the floor. "Come, brother. We have a war to end."

* * *

 Frerin is, in all honesty, somewhat relieved when the Orcs come. Despite Thorin's change of heart, the "negotiations" had so far mostly consisted of his brother and Thranduil arguing back and forth with Girion's heir, Bard, looking mightily confused and out of place. Then the scouts had reported a sea of black movement from the south, and a hasty alliance replaced the attempted treaties.

Flori, Vori, Gheth, Vun, and Falrin are safe within the mountain, along with many of the victims of Smaug's attack on Laketown. Balin and Frerin had convinced Thorin to let the survivors take shelter from the winter in Erebor, and now about two hundred women and children of Men hide behind the sturdy gates, fearing for the lives of their menfolk. Khala also remains behind, much to her displeasure; only concern for her children had convinced her to stay out of the battle. Everyone else prepares for war; Dain's people ready their goat-steeds, Dwalin and Gilan make some last minute changes to their mechanical chariots, and the Men sharpen their weapons and test their armor. Apparently, the Elves are "always ready" for battle, though Frerin sees a couple of them gathering more arrows.

As for Frerin, he feels as if he walks in another time. Though he has successfully led his people for most of his life, he has never participated in a battle bigger than a boar hunt. The steady marching of Orcs can already be heard, and the three armies appear underprepared and untrained against the drums of war.

And then they come.

They are ugly, mottled, twisted creatures with disfigured limbs and repulsive _things_ coming out of their bodies. Some ride horse-sized Wargs, while most march on foot. Two spots of white appear in the midst of the Orcs: two vile creatures that lead the masses.

"Azog is on the left," Thorin rumbles in his ear. The Company of Thorin Oakenshield and Frerin's men (and woman) stand shoulder to shoulder, gleaming in fine armor and armed from their boots to their heads with all manner of weapons. Frerin's members hold their bows, and Kili stands next to his golden-haired uncle, his own Dwarven bow held proudly in his grasp. On the other side of Thorin is Fili, then Balin, Dwalin, and the remaining Dwarves. Bilbo Baggins stands amongst them as well, holding a glowing blue dagger in his hands and wearing a determined look on his grime-covered face.

Dain's army surrounds them, while Thranduil's army is on Frerin's right, taking the hill, and Bard's army is on his left, guarding the valley. Every Man, Elf, and Dwarf stares at the oncoming horde with cold hatred.

Someone moves, an Orc, one of their own, Frerin does not know. But suddenly the neat and orderly lines of their ranks dissolve into chaos, the gleaming weapons and armor of the Free Peoples clashing with the dull darkness of the Orcs. Frerin finds himself back to back with a blond Elf faster than he can blink, half of his arrows gone and his swords already in his hands. He switches partners a thousand times, ducking and twirling with allies and foes alike in the deadly dance. One eye is constantly on his people and his family - Kun and Kora stand back to back, identical looks of rage and determination on their faces; Dwalin sticks an axe into an Orc's front just as the slimy beast attempts to skewer Thorin; Thorin's Elven sword slides effortlessly into another foul creature that tries to kill Fili. Tyllor and Balin are two whirling death storms, their white beards flying around them as the advisors to their respective princes show that age does not slow down any Dwarf, no sir, no ma'am.

He tries not to see the death, the hundreds of corpses falling around him. Tries not to recognize that they are vastly outnumbered, even with three whole armies mustered. Instead, he focuses on driving forward, on keeping the area - and the Dwarves - around him clear of enemies. They are slowly progressing through the ranks, and Frerin knows that Thorin is aiming for Azog.

The Pale Orc has a massive guard around him, and engaging these Orcs takes most of Frerin's concentration. He can see Kili draw an arrow and shoot at the white Orc next to Azog, though the arrow bounces off of the metal imbedded in the creature's head. It dismounts from its Warg, walking towards Frerin's sister-sons with a deadly mace and an evil gleam in its eye, and Frerin can only hope that they will be able to protect each other.

Frerin ducks, slashes, and twirls, trying to stay close by as his brother engages Azog, while keeping all the other Orcs occupied. He sees Fili and Kili's opponent go down, and Azog is momentarily distracted as he roars in anger. Thorin uses his lack of attention to lunge at the Pale Orc, but his swing falls short, and Azog's huge mace catches him right in the chest, sending him flying.

Frerin draws his bow and nocks an arrow, moving closer to the Orc as it looms over his brother. "Hey, fugly!" he shouts. "Yeah, white-arse, you!"

Azog pauses and turns, looking at Frerin. "There's one Durin you missed," Frerin growls. The Pale Orc snarls and faces Frerin completely, spreading its arms wide in a threatening gesture. Frerin releases the arrow. Unhindered by any metal, it pierces Azog in the middle of the Orc's forehead, dropping the massive general to the ground. Fili and Kili cheer, and the other Dwarves take up the call as they see Frerin cut off the Pale Orc's head and spear it on a sword. He raises it high, showing the whole battlefield, and Orcs begin to back away in fear. Frerin flings the head into the mass of ugly creatures, watching as they scatter and screech.

He moves to Thorin's side. His idiot brother is clutching at his dented armor and gasping painfully. "He's...dead?" Thorin chokes out, grunting with pain and coughing. Frerin nods, and Thorin manages a pained smile. "I'm proud of you...little brother."

To Frerin's horror, Thorin's eyes close and his hand falls slack. "Thorin? THORIN!" he shouts, shaking his brother in an attempt to wake him. _No, no, please no, not after this, not after everything,_ he begs. His shouting draws the attention of the others, and Fili and Kili drop down by their father-figure. "Uncle?" Kili asks, his voice close to breaking. His hair is a mess around his head, his body is covered in red and black blood, and dirt, sweat, and tears streak his face. He is young, too young for such a dark battle as this, and Frerin wishes that Kili could have stayed behind, too.

After mere moments, Dwalin runs over and lifts Thorin without a word. Thorin's Company and Frerin's fighters form a protective barrier around the two figures as Thorin is carried off the field and towards the tents set up for healing. _Please,_ Frerin thinks to the heavens again.

Just as they disappear into the royal tent, the cries of birds can be heard from the north.

* * *

"You are a dead Dwarf, Thorin Oakenshield!" a Dwarrowdam's voice can be heard from the hallway, through the _very_ thick doors to the large healing room in Erebor. Thorin, still somewhat weak from certain _activities_ , cringes at the sound. Fili and Kili, who rest on either side of their injured uncle's bed, also flinch, staring at the door with wide, frightened eyes.

"How did she get here so quick?" Kili mutters, sounding more frightened than Frerin had ever heard him.

"I sent an eagle to fetch her," Gandalf, who is muttering over an unconscious Man, informs them. "She demanded that I do so the minute the quest was over, and I, er, thought it in everyone's best interest to comply."

"You mean that even you, a thousands-year-old Wizard, are afraid of her? Mahal help us all." Fili groans, his head in his hands. The voice shouts again.

"Not _only_ did you do _exactly_ what I told you not to, but you _almost_ got yourself, and _my sons_ , killed in the process!" A dark-haired Dwarrowdam bursts through the doors, with a dozen or so healers of various races half-heartedly attempting to shush her. "Oooh, if you weren't the bloody King Under the Mountain, you'd be dead already, do you hear me?"

Thorin, it appears, is trying to sink into his mattress. He mutters something unintelligible, and the Dwarrowdam leans dangerously over him. " _What_?" she hisses.

"I said I'm sorry," Thorin murmurs meekly, nearly giving Frerin a heart attack. Bard has, for the past _three months_ , been trying to get some form of an apology out of Thorin, and yet this Dwarrowdam yanks it out of him in three seconds? The Man needs to take lessons.

Frerin, meanwhile, is attempting to hide his snickering. Mahal forbid the Dwarrowdam turn her anger on him - she looks scary enough from the side. Something about him catches her attention anyway, and she turns blazing brown eyes at him. "And who, exactly, are you?"

Frerin straightens. "Frerin Goldenbraid, son of Thrain, at your service, My Lady," he replies smartly, hoping to avoid her wrath. Instead of anger, though, the Dwarrowdam's expression contorts into shock, and she looks at Thorin in disbelief. Thorin now looks ever-so-slightly smug. "Yes, it's him," is all he says.

The Dwarrowdam turns her head to stare back at Frerin, eyes assessing him sharply. Then she shakes her head. "Well, Frerin, I'm depending on your help to keep our clothead of a brother in line, make sure he doesn't do something stupid. Again."

Frerin's eyes widen in understanding, and a mischievous smirk begins to form on his face, mirrored by Dis' own. Out of the corner of his eye, Frerin can see Fili, Kili, and Thorin all looking slightly alarmed. "My dear sister, it will be my pleasure."

**Author's Note:**

> I think it's kind of obvious where I lost speed near the end, but transition events can sometimes be so boring. A few notes about the fic:
> 
> 1) So I obviously played a bit with PJ's Erebor floor plan, but I tried to incorporate some of it in there.  
> 2) I realize this is incredibly long, but I didn't want to break it up by putting it into chapters. If you managed to get to the end - congratulations! Cookie for you (and a happily ever after ending).  
> 3) For Dwarf ages, I kind of figured that even though they may grow up at the same rate as humans, the fact that they live longer plays into their culture. Like, you would probably expect a thirty-year-old human to know more about life than an eighteen-year old, even though they're both adults, so the same goes for Dwarves; because they live longer, it takes longer before their opinions count as "adult". This is why Frerin, though still young even for humans, isn't a babbling baby but is still young enough to cause problems  
> 4) Thanks to [The Dwarrow Scholar](http://dwarrowscholar.mymiddleearth.com) for Khuzdul translations


End file.
